Finding Fraser(32)

“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.”