CHAPTER 4
The final stop on the bus tour was a visit to Urquhart Castle, which sits on the edge of the legendary Loch Ness. I was feeling restless—our group was moving slowly—and I broke off from the pack to enjoy the view on my own. As the day had passed, I’d started to enjoy the tour, but I didn’t need to hear every single fragment of history to appreciate the beauty of the sights.
A man who looked a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger was trying to take a picture of himself and his female companion. He set his camera into a small nook in the castle wall, pushed the auto button, ran quickly back to his darling, and put his arm around her hips. They briefly stayed in that unnatural pose, and then Arnold went to check whether the photo had was any good. I shook my head—at this rate, they weren’t going to get a decent shot at all—and I decided to pitch in.
“Can I maybe help you?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” the woman answered, laughing. “Our heads are always cut off!”
Happily, they smiled as I took a few shots, framing them carefully with the Grant Tower behind them. In return, they took a picture of me in front of Loch Ness.
It was hard to imagine that people had actually lived their lives in this castle, that it had once been something more than a ruin. I envisioned rough invaders swinging their swords as they raided the place. People from another world entirely, seven hundred years before. I climbed up the tower and took in the breathtaking view. I could easily see why this lake was the source of so many mysteries: the water looked almost black, and its surface was restless and opaque. Bare branches drifted in the current, standing out like bony arms from the secret depths below.
The wind blew my hair into my eyes, and I went back into the tower. My flimsy jacket wasn’t heavy enough for the Scottish climate. I wandered along behind a smoochy couple until I noticed that there was no trace of my tour group anywhere. I quickly scanned the ruin. Crap, I said to myself. Where had they all gone?
I pulled my jacket tightly around me and headed back to the bus. The path led over a small bridge, up a slope, and through the open doors of the souvenir shop. Dozens of people were pushing through the narrow aisles, clutching postcards and stuffed Nessies.
Looking for the shortest way past the crowd to the exit, I scooted along the back wall and tried to squeeze by a metal jewelry rack featuring coats of arms and clan tartans. I stopped dead in my tracks. A necklace on the rack looked just like the one I’d found in the attic.
Reaching into my shirt, I pulled out my grandma’s necklace. Wow—I was right! It did match.
I took the souvenir necklace off the display. It was slightly larger than mine and had a label that read “Cameron Coat of Arms, 12 pounds.”
I wondered why my grandma would have a necklace with the Cameron coat of arms on it. And why was it so warm again? It wasn’t burning hot like last time, but it was much warmer than the necklace from the shop.
When I took a closer look, I saw that the two pieces of jewelry were remarkably similar. Each showed a bundle of arrows bound together in the middle along with some words. The writing was clear on the souvenir: Cuimhnich air na daoine o’n d’ thanig thu. I held up my pendant to compare:
The legible letters were identical. My necklace was much more delicate and expertly crafted than the one I’d snagged off the souvenir stand, but I was convinced the words were the same. Still, I had no idea what they meant.
The shop had largely emptied out, and I looked for a salesperson. A young woman with flaming-red hair was standing at the cashier’s desk, looking bored while leafing through a magazine. I assumed she was resting after the siege of tourists she had just survived. Patiently, I waited for her to look up from the magazine, but she ignored me.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She glanced at me briefly before looking back down at her magazine.
“Yeah, what?” she barely managed to utter.
“This coat of arms—”
“Twelve pounds.” She turned to the next page. The cover of the magazine read “Brangelina wedding, at last?,” and I could imagine that for the clerk, answering a thousand questions a day from annoying tourists was not nearly as intriguing as reading about the love lives of movie stars.
Still, I didn’t give up. I put my hand holding the souvenir necklace smack in the middle of her magazine, right on top of the photo of the radiant Hollywood couple.
“You don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t want to buy it. I want to know what this writing means.”
“Oh yes, I do understand,” Ms. Flamehair said snootily. She yanked the magazine away and put it under the counter. “But unfortunately, I’m not a linguist, I’m a sales assistant. If you want to translate that Gaelic writing, then I recommend you get one of those dictionaries.” She motioned toward a table behind me, where several dictionaries, tour guides, and maps were laid out. “Or have a look at the books on the history of the clans.”
With that, I was dismissed, and Cathy—her name was on the name tag pinned to her shirt—began to sort out the cash-register drawer.
“By the way, we’re closing in five minutes,” she cheerfully called out.
There was no way I’d be able to find what I was looking for in five minutes. I leafed through the Gaelic dictionaries as fast as I could, but apart from learning how to ask for a bed-and-breakfast, I didn’t find a thing.
Cathy cleared her throat behind me. I ignored her for another minute, but then I gave up. Discontentedly, I paid the twelve pounds for the souvenir Cameron necklace and stepped out into the fresh air.
The parking lot was deserted. Cathy came out a minute later and locked the door. She glared at me, opened her car door, and drove off without a second look. It was starting to sink in: I was completely alone at the ruins of Urquhart Castle. Where the hell was my tour group, I wondered. Where was Baldy the Tour Guide? And where was the damn bus? Shit! The wind got stronger and a cold blast invaded my jacket. All right then, I decided. I’d have to call Roy and Alison and ask one of them to pick me up.
I rummaged around in my backpack for my cell phone. Then I remembered that I’d mindlessly tossed my phone into my suitcase after typing in all the important numbers for Scotland. Great. No cell phone. And I didn’t see a pay phone anywhere.
I was starting to feel a little panicky. I paced back and forth and considered my options: I could stay where I was, hoping the bus would turn around when someone in my tour group realized I was missing. I could wait for Alison and Roy; surely they’d find me eventually.
There was a roll of thunder. Night was beginning to fall and a mighty black wall of clouds had pushed itself across the sky. The castle was illuminated with spooky greenish lights, which only added to the ominous atmosphere. A bright stroke of lightning flashed across the water.
I added it up. I was alone, at night, in a storm, on the shores of Loch Ness, next to a ruin and all its ghosts, waiting for help when no one knew I needed it. That was too much for me, and I wasn’t just going to stand there. I grabbed my backpack and pulled the hood of my jacket down over my face as far as it would go. I walked briskly along the street in the direction of the last town I remembered passing. I figured there was bound to be a phone booth somewhere along the way.
But soon I started to second-guess myself: How far had it been to the town? Was I going the right way? Should I—or shouldn’t I—hitchhike?
More than ten minutes later, not a single car had passed. I was freezing. I mumbled swear words to keep myself company.
Suddenly, a car appeared. I thought about standing in the middle of the road to force it to stop, but decided that would probably amount to suicide. I jumped up and down, yelling and waving. “Hello! Hello! Please stop!”
The car raced passed me at full speed.
“Wait!”
I screamed and screamed as the taillights faded away.
I was about to burst into tears. It felt like I’d been walking for an eternity, and I still didn’t know how far I was from town. I wasn’t about to go back to the castle. Anyone looking for me there would have to pass me on the road anyway.
When it started to rain, I decided to run. My shoes were soaking, and my hood wasn’t making a bit of difference. Water was dripping into my eyes and down my neckline, running together with my tears. I desperately shouted, “Fuck it! Where is everybody?”
Then I heard a motor behind me. I turned around and saw a single headlight, coming toward me fast. A motorcycle was going far too quickly on the wet, dark street, spraying plumes of water to the side. I jumped out of the way, to avoid getting drenched.
I was about to yell after it when the bike’s rear brake light lit up. The bike had actually stopped! The driver turned, and I ran forward, waving gratefully.
Brushing my wet hair off my forehead and gasping for breath, I looked at my savior. It was hard to tell, because the biker’s face was hidden by a black helmet with a shaded visor, but it seemed to be a tall man, with a black leather outfit on.
I was exhausted, completely out of breath, and shaking all over. “I’m sorry to bother you, but can you give me a ride?”
There was a brief silence. Then a voice answered, muffled inside the helmet and a bit breathless and hesitant. “Sure. Where are you trying to go?”
“I need to get to Aviemore, but if you’re not going that far, that’s OK. I really just need to get to a phone.”
Another long pause.
“I can take you to Aviemore. It’s on my way. Hop on.”
He reached out to me, and when I took his hand, he twitched, as if he’d been zapped by a shock. I raised my eyebrows and paused, expecting him to explain, but all he said, impatiently, was, “Come on, get on the bike!”
Relieved to be on my way to Alison and Roy’s cozy little cottage, I swung my leg over the bike, settled onto the seat, and grabbed hold of the unknown driver. He revved the motor, which was so powerful that we almost started to fly. Oh, great, I thought, this guy’s insane. I wasn’t even wearing a helmet, and he was racing along the dark, wet road at an unbelievable speed.
After the first few minutes, though, I seemed to have used up all my adrenaline and somehow managed to get over my fear of death. I held on to his wet leather jacket with all my might. We sped through the night, along Loch Ness’s shimmery coast, with my hair blowing in the wind and the rain whipping me in the face.
The ride didn’t take as long as I’d expected, but I was stiff when I got off the bike.
“Thanks. I don’t know how…”
My knees buckled, and I almost lost my balance. I groped for something to hold on to, and when I grabbed my mysterious driver, he again twitched at my touch. Then he pulled his arm away and rocketed down the road.
Irritated that I hadn’t gotten to properly thank him, I stood in the dark, thinking that they were certainly strange people, these Scots.