too much t o see them suffer.
And had he the chance, he'd do the same all over again.
Angus MacDonald sat up in his narrow bed. Having heard the gossip during one of his lucid moments during the day, it did not surprise him when the ghost of his great-great-great-great-uncle Cameron came to haunt him in the hollow of the night. And it surprised him even less that Cameron MacD
onald I was, in death, no less unconventional than he'd been when he was alive. No rattling chains and slipping through doors, not for him. No, he came to Angus in the guise of a dream, a spectacular frenzy in which Ang us seemed to be seeing through Cameron's own eyes as he thundered across a moor, waving a broadsword.
"I shouldna have expected anything different," he muttered, talking to hims elf as he pulled on a pair of twill trousers and a pilled Shetland sweater. Once, when he'd been caretaker of Carrymuir, he'd seen the ghost of Mary Q
ueen of Scots herself, sailing away from Loch Leven Castle dressed as a lad die, as she'd been
45
when she escaped its prison hundreds of years before. It had left him with a queer feeling in his stomach and a beating in his head not unlike a hangove r--sensations he felt right now.
Angus knew that although most people would dismiss him as someone in the throes of Alzheimer's, he was really a victim of collective memory. It was a sort of reincarnation, a resurrection of some other clan member's thoughts. He happened to be privy to whatever was plaguing Cameron MacDo nald I. And tonight, Cameron Mac-Donald I was not pleased with the actio ns of Cameron MacDonald II.
"I dinna know what he can be thinking," Angus said, pulling slippers onto his feet, because they were the first footwear he could find in his bedroo m. "Young Cam always has to be reminded about the way of things." Angus, in fact, had been the one to convince Cam to return to Wheelock and b ecome police chief after his father's death. Almost exactly eight years ago, Cameron had come to Scotland to tell Angus about Ian's accident. At the tim e, Angus had been seventy-four, caretaker at Carrymuir all his life, althoug h his wife had died twelve years earlier and all his relatives were living i n Massachusetts. Young Cameron, who was a bit of a wanderer, had volunteered to sit at Carrymuir for several years to spell Angus, but Ian's early death had altered the plans. Cam had taken Angus to the tavern for a wee dram, kn owing that he, like everyone else, would take the loss of a clan chief hard. He spread his palms over the scarred wooden bar and told him of the ice, th e tractor-trailer, the bend in the narrow road. He said this all in a monoto ne, because it wasn't quite real to him yet, and he mentioned, as the doctor s had, that his father had felt no pain. When he was finished speaking, Angu s looked up at him, his eyes bright and dry. "Aye, well," he said, "so I'll be stayin' here a wee bit longer."
To Angus's horror, Young Cam had wanted to trade. He'd stay at Carrymuir, he said, and Angus could go home and take over the clan. The thought had s haken Angus more than his nephew's death; you simply couldn't cross the li nes of leadership like that.
Even now, Angus remembered the shine of Cam's brow and the set of his jaw as he fought his own birthright. It's no' a real title, he had said. There's not hing I can do as chief that ye canna do better.
Angus had shrugged, finished off his whiskey, and stared at the boy. He wond ered if Cam realized that he had slipped into Angus's own Scots burr, not be cause of a familiarity with the pattern of speech in Carrymuir, but simply b ecause it had been bred into him. "Duty is duty," Angus had said, "and a lai rd is a laird. And be there a clan or no', lad, ye canna doubt your own bloo d."
Of course, stubbornness had also been passed down over the generations of MacDonalds, so Angus had accepted a compromise. Cam returned to Wheelock
, but so did Angus, and the lands and grand house at Carrymuir were
And had he the chance, he'd do the same all over again.
Angus MacDonald sat up in his narrow bed. Having heard the gossip during one of his lucid moments during the day, it did not surprise him when the ghost of his great-great-great-great-uncle Cameron came to haunt him in the hollow of the night. And it surprised him even less that Cameron MacD
onald I was, in death, no less unconventional than he'd been when he was alive. No rattling chains and slipping through doors, not for him. No, he came to Angus in the guise of a dream, a spectacular frenzy in which Ang us seemed to be seeing through Cameron's own eyes as he thundered across a moor, waving a broadsword.
"I shouldna have expected anything different," he muttered, talking to hims elf as he pulled on a pair of twill trousers and a pilled Shetland sweater. Once, when he'd been caretaker of Carrymuir, he'd seen the ghost of Mary Q
ueen of Scots herself, sailing away from Loch Leven Castle dressed as a lad die, as she'd been
45
when she escaped its prison hundreds of years before. It had left him with a queer feeling in his stomach and a beating in his head not unlike a hangove r--sensations he felt right now.
Angus knew that although most people would dismiss him as someone in the throes of Alzheimer's, he was really a victim of collective memory. It was a sort of reincarnation, a resurrection of some other clan member's thoughts. He happened to be privy to whatever was plaguing Cameron MacDo nald I. And tonight, Cameron Mac-Donald I was not pleased with the actio ns of Cameron MacDonald II.
"I dinna know what he can be thinking," Angus said, pulling slippers onto his feet, because they were the first footwear he could find in his bedroo m. "Young Cam always has to be reminded about the way of things." Angus, in fact, had been the one to convince Cam to return to Wheelock and b ecome police chief after his father's death. Almost exactly eight years ago, Cameron had come to Scotland to tell Angus about Ian's accident. At the tim e, Angus had been seventy-four, caretaker at Carrymuir all his life, althoug h his wife had died twelve years earlier and all his relatives were living i n Massachusetts. Young Cameron, who was a bit of a wanderer, had volunteered to sit at Carrymuir for several years to spell Angus, but Ian's early death had altered the plans. Cam had taken Angus to the tavern for a wee dram, kn owing that he, like everyone else, would take the loss of a clan chief hard. He spread his palms over the scarred wooden bar and told him of the ice, th e tractor-trailer, the bend in the narrow road. He said this all in a monoto ne, because it wasn't quite real to him yet, and he mentioned, as the doctor s had, that his father had felt no pain. When he was finished speaking, Angu s looked up at him, his eyes bright and dry. "Aye, well," he said, "so I'll be stayin' here a wee bit longer."
To Angus's horror, Young Cam had wanted to trade. He'd stay at Carrymuir, he said, and Angus could go home and take over the clan. The thought had s haken Angus more than his nephew's death; you simply couldn't cross the li nes of leadership like that.
Even now, Angus remembered the shine of Cam's brow and the set of his jaw as he fought his own birthright. It's no' a real title, he had said. There's not hing I can do as chief that ye canna do better.
Angus had shrugged, finished off his whiskey, and stared at the boy. He wond ered if Cam realized that he had slipped into Angus's own Scots burr, not be cause of a familiarity with the pattern of speech in Carrymuir, but simply b ecause it had been bred into him. "Duty is duty," Angus had said, "and a lai rd is a laird. And be there a clan or no', lad, ye canna doubt your own bloo d."
Of course, stubbornness had also been passed down over the generations of MacDonalds, so Angus had accepted a compromise. Cam returned to Wheelock
, but so did Angus, and the lands and grand house at Carrymuir were
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