Finding Fraser (23 page)

I opened my mouth to argue with her. And
then I remembered. “My friend who was here—he stayed all night hoping to
see the ghost.”

“And …?” She crossed her arms then, waiting
for me to finish.

“He’s in the hospital,” I admitted
reluctantly. “He caught a chill and it turned into pneumonia.”

Valerie nodded, tracing a finger along the
surface of the standing stone. “American?” she asked, though from her smile, I
felt she must know the answer.

“From Georgia,” I said. “But his mother’s
family came from England.”

She shrugged. “Who’s to know what’s at
play?”

We both stood quiet a moment, and then
Valerie raised her head. “I don’t have a sense of him, I’m sorry to say. But I
hope he’ll be well again soon.”

“I think he’s doing much better,” I said.

She nodded, and stepped back onto the path.
“And glad I am to hear it. But for you, though … have ye seen enough? Is there
anything else I can answer for ye?”

Looking back over the low cairn, I could see
the old stones standing sentinel around it. Behind it fields dotted with red
cattle spread across the landscape, completed by the white coats of sheep on
the nearby hillside. The only sound I could hear, apart from the cars on the
motorway in the distance, was the jagged cawing of a crow as it flew overhead.

I turned and walked back to Valerie. “This
is such a beautiful place,” I said quietly. “Just looking around here, it takes
my breath away. I can understand how your family has stayed here for so many
generations. You must never want to leave.”

She whistled sharply for Wullie and then
smiled at me as he came bounding up. “For all that’s true, pet, I
am
fond of a wee jaunt to Pamplona in
February. The winters here can be a mite dreich.”

Future Feelings…

9:00 pm, March 20

Drumnadrochit, Scotland

Just back from an amazing visit to
another set of standing stones. This time, my guide was someone who
knows
things. Her heart and her blood
are in this soil. And she taught me the Scots word for the constant rain and
mist, too.

We did not see a ghost, or find a Highlander
to sweep me off my feet. But she has reminded me that my dreams are always
within my grasp.

First, though? I need to find a job.

- ES

Comments: 13

Gerald Abernathy, Ft. William, Scotland:

Nothing?

Nothing?

Ah, well … at least you didn’t get sick.
Email me, y’all!

Jack Findlay, Edinburgh, Scotland:

Don’t have an email address for you,
Emma, so I thought I’d just drop you a quick note here on your blog to let you
know all is well. Ankle is broken, but plastered and I’m back down to Edinburgh
for re-coup and a chat with my editor. Thanks again for your help, and
Godspeed.

Jack

(Read 11 more comments
here
…)

I
leaned back in my seat and sipped the last of my almost-cold tea.
So Jack’s ankle was broken. I felt a spasm of guilt as I thought
about him taking that long walk all the way from the castle to the road. But at
least he was okay. Still writing. When my life returned to some semblance of
normal, I would have to stop and buy one of his books. Gerald certainly thought
he was a great writer. And speaking of Gerald, wherever I ended up next, I
needed to email him. He clearly wanted all the details from the trip to the
circle.

Not that I had a lot to share.

By the time I’d read the last of the
comments as they rolled in, the woman at the front of the cafe had cleaned off
all the tables and was looking at me pointedly. I gathered up the remains of my
biscuit and backpack and stepped outside. The bus stop was right next to the
coffee shop. A solid, dreary rain had begun to fall and I’d been hoping that
the cafe would stay open for shelter until the bus arrived, but no joy on that
front.

I pulled up my hood, waited for the lights
of the next bus and thought about Valerie. About the moment when she’d held my
hand. The circle of stones hadn’t been
Craigh
na Dun
, I’d known that all along. And even as star-struck as this voyage
had been from the start, I had no real expectation of a Highland warrior
suddenly manifesting for my approval. I couldn’t quite remember just what I had
been thinking at the onset of this journey, but the route I had taken had
provided dreamy young Scottish men in distinctly short supply.

I had to face facts. In spite of the rain,
and the cold and my inability to find a reasonable facsimile of
Craigh na Dun
, the country was beginning
to take a hold on me. The Scottish grip was squeezing tightly on my heart. But
finding my Fraser had not happened. I needed to earn enough to buy the plane
ticket as promised, and go home.

A pair of lights swung round the corner and
the bus pulled up at last.

Filleting Fish…

8:00 pm, April 3

Glasgow, Scotland

Been here for almost two weeks now,
having caught the bus down from Drumnadrochit. Have to admit to having a bit of
a struggle finding a job. As pretty much expected, it seems that a visitor’s
visa generally doesn’t allow a person to work while they are visiting. At least
not legally. So for your edification here are a few thoughts on things you
should
not
do while looking for work
while away from your homeland:

Don’t be a linguistic loser: Affecting a
Scottish accent in order to convince potential employers of your local status
is not recommended. They can tell. They really can.

Pathetic principle: Do not turn down a
position as a street-hawker with a haughty “I can do better”, only to return and
apply again when it turns out you can’t. Because they remember. They really do.

Fatal flaw: And above all, do not
overstate your skill set, particularly as a salesperson of seafood comestibles,
as——and trust me on this one——it leads only to a back
room, an apron that smells of fish guts, and a plethora of scaling-knife
wounds.

From these tips you may be able to tell I
found something last week at last. I was going to call myself a piscine
executive, but the truth is I have been cutting up fish for a man who owns a
shop here in Glasgow. However, twelve-hour days of chopping and gutting don’t
leave much time for blogging.
 
Or
Fraser-finding. Hoping things will loosen up a bit, soon.

- ES

Comments: 6

HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

Emma-san! I too work in a factory. Chin
up——twelve hour days do not sound that bad. I work fourteen each
day, plus English class and violin practice, yet I still find time to read your
blog. Is your new employer handsome?

(Read 5 more comments
here
…)

Flogging Fiction…

1:00 am, April 15

Glasgow, Scotland

So——ah——the
fish-processing job didn’t work out, in the end. My supervisor was … well. It
just didn’t work out, is all.

Anyway, I’ve got another job, selling
speculative fiction magazines door to door. Starts tomorrow. There’s a really
small quota——I think it’s going to be perfect. More time to blog,
anyway, and if I’m going door to door, I’ll get to explore the city as I work,
and maybe meet a few people!

- ES

Comments: 6

SophiaSheridan, Chicago, USA:

Emma, I can lend you the money you need.
You can pay me back when you get a decent job here. Chopping off fish heads?
Direct sales? And I thought nothing could be worse than your coffee-shop
drudgery. Come home!

(Read 5 more comments
here
…)

Financial Flagging…

11:00 pm, April 30

Glasgow, Scotland

Glasgow is an amazing city. But, you
know? I’m re-thinking my role in direct sales. I suspect I lack what my sister
would call the correct skill-set. Or financial acumen. Or the ability to sell
anything except maybe a decent latte.

- ES

Comments: 0

I
logged off long before my money had run out and gently rested my head on the
edge of the desk.
Now that I had the time to blog
again, I couldn’t find any words to say. My enthusiasm for writing had dried
up, along with my quest. Glasgow
was
amazing—I
wasn’t lying. But it was a city—a fairly big city—with all the attendant
city issues. Like expensive housing. High jobless rate. Creepy employers.

The truth was, the entire month of April had
been
a blur, with one terrible job morphing into
another. I’d had two—no, three—jobs, all of which I’d had to run
away or be fired from.

The fishmonger job had
looked perfect at first, apart from the whole fish angle, until I went to wash
up at the big sink in the back after a shift and found my shift supervisor
doing the same.

Except he was not
wearing his uniform
—
or
anything at all, really.

It became immediately
clear that our expectations on my job description differed.

Luckily, since one of
us was naked, it only took me ten minutes or so to lose him on Crown Street.
The fact that he didn’t seem worried about chasing after me through his
neighborhood, crying and calling my name
—
while stark naked—led me to believe it may have
happened before. The public thoroughfare didn’t slow him down any, either, but
once I made it onto the Albert Bridge, I could no longer hear the telltale
sound of his junk whacking against his legs as he ran. Who knows? Maybe his
feet got cold …

I’ve said it before.
Fish make people crazy.

Running through the
streets of Glasgow in my bloody apron had left me sweaty and freaked out, so I
spent the rest of the night in an all-night diner, going through the
classifieds of a discarded
Daily Record.
I thought about going to the police, but decided that my own illegal employee
status might not make me the most credible witness.

The lone waitress in
the place came up with her coffee pot and filled my cup. “Ye want anything to
eat?” she asked, giving my apron the side-eye.

“No, thanks.” My
stomach was still in knots from the unexpected, lurid street-race.

She shrugged and went
back to filling saltshakers. By the time she made it around to my table again,
I’d crossed off just about every listing. My only area of expertise was working
at a coffee shop, and there wasn’t a single job listed.

“Is there another
paper?” I asked, as she refilled my coffee cup.

“Yeah. But no’ much in
the way o’ work, aye?”

I sighed. “I tried
being a fish monger, but it didn’t really work out.”

“Ah. That explains the
smell then.”

“Oh—yeah. Sorry
about that.”

In the end, the
waitress had taken pity on me and sent me off to a “fella” she knew who was
running a deal to sell science fiction magazines door to door.

A week later, though,
he’d given me the boot, since I hadn’t sold a single subscription. The Scots were
canny about value, and everyone I’d approached indicated puzzlement as to why
anyone would buy a magazine when the facsimile was available online.

I’d had no good
answer.

So.

I’d run away from
paycheck number one. Struck out on paycheck number two—
“Commission only, luv”
. My last attempt
was a job I had managed to land only that morning. It involved holding a
cardboard sign mounted on an unfinished wood stick, entreating passersby to eat
‘New York-Style’ pizza. I also had leaflets to hand out.

I rubbed my eyes, and
thought about logging on again, to take advantage of my last couple of minutes
of time online. I’d only come in because my feet were sore, anyway. But my
comments had dwindled. Even the faithful HiHoKitty had been silenced by my
increasingly desperate posts, so I needed to think of something optimistic to
say. Maybe I should consider a post on how to run from a naked employer?

I’d just flexed my
fingers to type again, when a shadow loomed over me. It was the Internet café
manager.

“Oi! Wot’s that,
then?” he demanded.

“It’s my sign.” I
tilted it so he could see. “I’ve tucked it in out of the way.”

“No, no, no. Yeh
cain’t have tha’ in here, aye?”

“I can’t …?”

“No soliciting on the premises.”

“Oh, I’m not …”

“Out wit’ yeh. And
mind yeh don’t leave any of them flyers behind. I know yer kind
—
leavin’ that crap all ower the
place. Out wit’ yeh!”

I took my flyers and fled.

Outside, I crossed the
street and sat on a bench by the bus station. I stacked the flyers neatly on
the seat beside me, and tilted the sign against the back wall. The gray mist of
Glasgow settled onto the flyers, which began to curl at the edges almost
immediately.

In front of me, a bus
pulled up.
Emblazoned on the side was an ad with a very
large man in a kilt throwing some kind of huge stone boulder into the air.
Behind him the sun shone with a warm yellow glow. Above the man’s swinging kilt
was printed
Gather Your Clan At The Nairn
Games
.

I hadn’t seen a man wearing a kilt since I’d
arrived in Glasgow. My heart lurched.

The door of the bus opened, and I stood up. Didn’t
even look back at the flyers or the ‘New York-style Pizza’ sign.

“Where’re ye headed, young lady?” said the
bus driver, as I stepped inside.

I pushed off my hood and wiped a handful of
wet hair away from my face.

“Nairn,” I said, and paid the fare.

It only took me a minute or two to sort
out the controls. If I’d known driving a carriage was this easy, I’d have
picked it up long ago. But even though I held on tightly to the leathers—and
who knew reins would work exactly like my Xbox?—the horses still raced
toward the cliff.

I looked behind me for help, but both
Elisabeth Bennet and her mother were dead on the floor. The door to the
carriage burst open and the entire rest of the Bennet family was there, all
screaming at once. I leaned back with all my weight on the reins and the
carriage slowed a little, the wheels skimming just inches away from the cliff,
shooting pebbles off the precipice. Iron-gray seas thrashed in foamy fury
below.

One of the reins snapped in half and Mr.
Darcy screamed like a girl.