A Scottish Holiday

Walking the Highlands of Scotland was amazing. Never had I seen such an abundance of wildflowers, especially heather, all in one spot, and the views from the top of the crag were fantastic. Ah, such a place to call home must surely be like a bit of heaven on Earth.

Of course, it wasn’t my home. I was just a visitor, an interloper into the serene scenery and clean mountain air. But oh, to look up into that clear blue sky with the clouds rolling lazily by, what I wouldn’t give to stay in that spot forever. I could believe Brigadoon was just over yon hill.

How aggrieved I was when night started to come on and I had to make my way down the hill. Sure the inn I was staying at was nice, the people friendly, and such a preponderance of food the likes of which I had never seen, but by comparison to the natural wonders I beheld outside everything else paled.

I wasn’t watching where I was going having been so caught up in the beauty around me that I stumbled on a rock as I continued downward. I cursed silently to myself for having been so stupid. A hand reached down to help me to my feet.

“Thank you.” I must have hit my head for the man attached to that hand looked like a British soldier from centuries ago. In full military garb, he was immaculate in his formal red uniform.

“See you soon.”   He simply disappeared before my bewildered gaze. As I made my way back to the inn I could do no more than wonder what had just happened and what he meant by his enigmatic greeting.

The meeting seemed like a distant memory after eating and making merry with my new acquaintances. I trudged up to my room, ready to get some sleep. Someone must have snuck into my room to play a very elaborate prank though, making fun of the Yank. There on my bed was the full garb of a clan Scotsman, kilt and all. Did someone really think I would put such an outfit on?

I must admit I did find the clothing and all the accessories quite beguiling. I could imagine the proud Scot that would wear them: tall, rugged, and handsomely masculine. Nonetheless I would find out who had put them in my room in the morning. For tonight I moved them to a nearby chair and went to bed.

I had a fitful sleep, dreaming of battles long ago, of bawdy lasses and the hard life of the laird overseeing the clan. When I awoke in the morning I was no more refreshed than if I had been fighting the battle of my dreams in reality, the smell of death embracing desperate men lingering in my mind.

After I got myself dressed for the day, I gathered the outfit carefully, making my way down the stairs to the innkeeper’s wife. She nearly fainted when I held the clothes out to her. She carefully examined them, looking closely at the plaid tartan and the insignia on the hilt of the Sgian Dubh.

“Aye, I ha’ no seen such as this except in museums and history books. None around here would have such garb.” A nagging instinct told me she knew more than she was telling me but I chose not to pursue the matter further lest I offend the good woman.

“Mind if I keep them and do some research while I’m here? I’ll give them back to you before I leave.”

“You can keep them dearie. They not be mine.”

“Thanks.” I was much too excited to think about eating so I just took my precious treasure back to my room to begin my research, no longer concerned about how they came to be in my possession. My first stop would be a nearby museum dedicated to the Battle of Culloden. Perhaps someone there could shed some light on the mystery.

I don’t know what possessed me but the longer I held the clothes, the greater the urge became to don them. That was utterly ridiculous since I was nowhere near as big as the person that they had belonged to yet the need to wear them continually grew stronger until I could no longer resist. I stripped and stood there naked, not having any idea how to put a Scot’s garb on. Eventually I found myself clad as a Scotsman. How I did it I don’t know but there I stood, wearing a kilt and surely looking ridiculous as I could tell the clothes hung from my massively undersized body. Still I had to see what I looked like and made my way carefully to the full-length mirror, trying not to trip over the large brogues encasing my feet and trying to hold the kilt from slipping down to my ankles.

Sure enough the sight I beheld in the mirror was hilarious. I looked like a little kid playing dress up in his father’s clothes. I made a move to take the clothes off but I found I was unable to move, frozen to the spot looking at myself in the mirror.

I began to panic, especially as I watched my thinning hair grow full and curly, turning red while lengthening and tickling the back of my neck. I could feel my feet getting larger within the confines of the brogues as an intense pressure came over the rest of my body. I could only watch as a pulsing overtook every muscle, expanding them until my torso and legs had become powerful and strong. Finally my face began to contort until I now had a square shaped face adorned with stubble and deep inset blue eyes. No longer did I recognize the man in the mirror, one that filled out the garb so perfectly and would never be mistaken for anything other than a Scottish man, ready to fight for everything he believed in with fierce determination.

Before I could wrap my mind around what had just happened, the mirror began to shimmer, the reflected room changing to that of someplace on the moors and suddenly I found myself whisked away to a place definitely not the inn. The breeze blew through my hair and I shivered at the change in temperature. I could see why the clothes had been made of wool for they were the only thing protecting me from the elements and providing warmth.

“Shall we finish our battle, highlander?” I turned abruptly to face the voice, a voice I had briefly heard before. Standing before me was the British soldier, a very solemn expression adorning his countenance as he raised the sword in his hand to my throat.

“How…” I stopped at the first word out of my mouth. In just one moment my tongue had gone from speaking American English to a deep Scottish accent. I knew not to what battle he was referring as I had seen the man but once before. My mind began to tell me otherwise as my own hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached for the sword at my side, quickly repelling his sword from me.

“Aye. Let’s be done with it.” Had I just agreed to a sword fight? That would be preposterous since I knew nothing about sword battles and he likely was a master swordsman. Our blades crossed, metal against metal. Each maneuver came natural to me as if I had been fighting for many years. The adrenalin pumping through my body was such a high, even as I surely faced death at the hands of the soldier. Each move he made I countered with a move of my own, managing to strike a gash to his arm. We fought on, each determined to preserve his own life. I knew he was my sworn enemy as sure as I could recall the many transgressions the man had done to me.  He lunged and I lost my balance just enough that he was able to open a wound on my face, the blood dripping red down my chin. I recovered, my body’s agility absolutely amazing, and with one powerful stroke I stabbed his torso through. He dropped to the ground, mortally wounded.

“You have won… nothing.” He taunted me even with his last dying breath, producing a pistol and shooting. Fortunately for me his aim was off and the bullet did no more than graze my shoulder. I stumbled backwards, tripping over a rock and blacking out as I hit the ground.

I awoke to find myself back at the inn, once more in my bed. The memory of the battle and the soldier’s death by my hands fresh in my mind. Everything had been so real. Had it truly happened?

I dragged myself naked from the bed. I was famished as though I hadn’t eaten in quite some time. What day was it? I found some clothes I didn’t recognize on a nearby chair and started to put them on.

“Wake up, guy. They are obviously way too large for you.” I silently chided myself. They were the only clothes nearby so what choice did I have? Still yawning from my sleep, I stumbled into the toilet. Reality hit me hard: the clothes fit me perfectly and now I knew why. The man staring at me from the mirror was tall, powerfully built, and ruggedly handsome. His blonde hair was cut short and a layer of stubble adorned his chiseled features but apart from the hair and looking a bit less weatherworn, he could be the doppelganger of the Scotsman I had dreamt about, for surely it had all been but a dream.

Still quite unsure of myself I made my way downstairs.

“Guid mornin, Jamie.  Hou ar ye?” Jamie… my name wasn’t… I felt a strange shift in the atmosphere. Jamie… Jamie McDonald… that was my name. I had come back home for a holiday to check out my Scottish roots and find out about the man whose namesake I was, the one whose clan kilt had been passed down many generations and I had inherited. I had tried it on once but it was too precious to me to do so often but I had brought it with me on my trip.

“A’m fine, slainte! An ye?” I hadn’t lost any of my natural accent even though I had emigrated to America when I was a teen. The innkeeper’s wife was a friendly woman and treated me like a long-lost son. She served me a huge breakfast, which I promptly scoffed down. It was good to be home again after so many years away.

I was due to return to New York in a few days so I planned to make the most of my time. Today I was going back to the moors where my great-great- well, many greats... grandfather had met a British soldier in a duel and had lived to tell the tale. I had to remember to thank that travel agent for arranging the trip for me. I felt like a new man.