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The burly, tussled haired, youth charged down the slope of the hill with the last of the afternoon’s golden sun receding behind him. He was at full pelt, kilt flying, a sharp dirk clenched in one broad raised fist and a guttural war-cry on his tongue. “Craeg-an”-
The lad stopped abruptly. Och, and what’s the point? he thought. No English here, not even any stray sheep to put the wind up, just him, in the drear, alone. Craeg-an-tuire. “Might as well be Brigadoon!” he said out loud. He blinked and shook his head, now where had that come from? He didn’t even know what it meant, Brigadoon. But he had to surely?
“I don’t know...” he said slowly, features thoughtful. Ever since that Sassenach’s musket had caught him a good one on the head he’d not been feeling himself at all.
Now, laddie, we’ll have none of that nonsense, he told himself sharply. I know perfectly well who I am; I’m Jamie McCrimmon, of the clan McLaren. The clan piper no less.
Aye, that was true enough. And perhaps that would settle him down, a good bit of piping as the day reached its end. Aye...
He thrust his dirk into his belt and rummaged into the bag slung across his back. His hand found the musical instrument inside and pulled it out.
Wait, what? Someone must be playing tricks on me, he thought with a flash of anger, to cover the confusion building in him again. That was no bagpipe in his hand; it was a recorder, a kiddie’s flute.
“Yes I’m sorry about that,” said an urbane voice abruptly from nowhere, “I’m rather afraid it’s mine.”
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The lad stopped abruptly. Och, and what’s the point? he thought. No English here, not even any stray sheep to put the wind up, just him, in the drear, alone. Craeg-an-tuire. “Might as well be Brigadoon!” he said out loud. He blinked and shook his head, now where had that come from? He didn’t even know what it meant, Brigadoon. But he had to surely?
“I don’t know...” he said slowly, features thoughtful. Ever since that Sassenach’s musket had caught him a good one on the head he’d not been feeling himself at all.
Now, laddie, we’ll have none of that nonsense, he told himself sharply. I know perfectly well who I am; I’m Jamie McCrimmon, of the clan McLaren. The clan piper no less.
Aye, that was true enough. And perhaps that would settle him down, a good bit of piping as the day reached its end. Aye...
He thrust his dirk into his belt and rummaged into the bag slung across his back. His hand found the musical instrument inside and pulled it out.
Wait, what? Someone must be playing tricks on me, he thought with a flash of anger, to cover the confusion building in him again. That was no bagpipe in his hand; it was a recorder, a kiddie’s flute.
“Yes I’m sorry about that,” said an urbane voice abruptly from nowhere, “I’m rather afraid it’s mine.”
( Read more... )
