Flower of Scotland Read online

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Supply and Demand

  The man who walked into my office was old-school through and through. A squad of little old ladies on Harris had toiled for years to make his suit, his school tie was knotted just right, and his brogues squeaked as he walked across the room. He looked to be in his seventies, but held his back ramrod straight. He strode into the room as if he owned it and thrust a hand at me that I couldn’t refuse to shake.

  "Thanks for seeing me doctor," he said.

  In truth, I didn’t have any option. All psych-cases from the ER were referred straight to me, and the call had come in about the strange little man in reception less than five minutes before.

  I didn’t quite know what to make of him yet. All I knew was that he had thrown a screaming fit when an orderly approached him.

  He sat down across the desk from me and smiled.

  "I’m not mad you know?"

  "Prove it," I said, smiling back.

  He crossed his legs, making sure that the seams on his trouser legs were straight and that no ankle was showing above his socks before he was happy to relax.

  "Do you believe in God, Doctor?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Good. That will make this easier. I started to notice nearly thirty years ago," he said.

  "Notice what?"

  "Just give me a chance and I’ll tell you. But first… another question if I may? Do you think you have a soul?"

  "Yes," I replied again. "I’m not overly religious, but I do believe there’s something that survives us… call it a soul if you must."

  "An interesting position for a scientific man to take is it not?"

  "More common than you might think," I replied. "But we’re not here to talk about me. Do you have a point?"

  "Yes… and as I said, I’m getting to it."

  He fiddled with his cuffs, making sure that just the right amount of shirt showed.

  "One of the perils of getting old," he said. "The world changes so much around you. And back then, when I started to see them, it was still the Seventies, and the world had changed so much already that I thought they were just another manifestation."

  "They?"

  He waved a hand at me.

  "Yes…I’m sure you hear about Them all the time from patients. But I’m not ready for the tin foil hat yet. No… what I was seeing was children. Little children. Children with blank stares. Children with no joy in their hearts… children without souls. And they were everywhere.

  He stopped, sudden tears running down his cheeks.

  "It’s not uncommon," I said softly. "As we get older. We get disassociated from the consensus reality and…"

  Again he waved me away.

  "I’m old, not stupid," he replied. "For thirty years I’ve watched them. And now they are in positions of power… policemen, doctors, lawyers… and soon they’ll be politicians. And where will we be then?"

  "I don’t quite understand what you’re trying to tell me."

  "The soulless. They’re walking the earth in millions. And their numbers are growing."

  His tears coursed freely now, and he started to get agitated. My hand crept closer to my panic button, but I didn’t hit it.

  "As far as I can work it out, there are two reasons," he finally continued. One of them gives me slight hope for my own future, but neither is good news. Either God has given up on us completely, in which case it’s all over bar the shouting…"

  "Or?" I asked when he didn’t show any sign of continuing.

  "Or there’s only a finite number of souls available at any one time… and we’re growing too fast for God to keep up."

  "Don’t you think that God, being God, would have factored that in?"

  "Maybe he did," the old man said. "Maybe he never meant us to get so ahead of ourselves. And… here’s what really worries me Doctor. Maybe what I’m seeing is his way of telling us our time is up?"

  He started to look around him, as if afraid he was being watched..

  I tried to keep my voice low and calm.

  "And why do you think only you are seeing… whatever it is you are seeing?"

  He was quiet for a long time before answering.

  "I think everybody sees. It’s just they choose not to notice. Violence escalates, people get killed for little more than the loose change in their pockets. We let babies become heroin addicts before they are even born. The world is going to hell in a hand-basket."

  His voice rose into a shout.

  "Our moral compass is broken. And we know it. We just choose to look the other way, while the numbers of the soulless grow and we sink, ever closer to the end. And there’s nothing I can do about it!"

  When the orderly came in, the old man took one look at him and screamed even louder.

  "Look! He’s one of them."

  Eventually it took three orderlies and a dose of Thorazine to quiet the old man. He had one last look at me as he was carried out.

  "Just look," he whispered. "Please?"

  I watched the orderlies carry him off down the corridor, then went to the one place I knew I could trust to lift my spirits after such an encounter.

  The maternity ward was, as usual, full of hustle and bustle. Along the far wall a row of fathers looked in to the recovery area where row after row of new born babes lay. Just looking at them always calmed me, reassured me that, despite all the sad despair I saw every day, there was some hope in new life.

  But today was different.

  The babes lay, still, quiet.

  Their dark, cold stares followed me as I walked quickly away.

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  At the Beach

  It was a Wednesday, and Donald Brown had taken the day off. A quiet day on the beach - just him, the sun and a good book. That had been the plan anyway, but it didn't work out that way.

  Firstly the train journey down had been a nightmare - there were at least a hundred children on board - all screaming and mewling and swearing in unison, the solitary teacher accompanying them either too disinterested or too tired to control them. Then there were the day trippers - all rucksacks and designer surf clothing, all full of their own self importance. And to cap it all, Donald had bought the wrong ticket and had to suffer the snickering and sighing of all around as he paid the difference from the few pennies he could scrape out of his purse.

  Luckily when they arrived at the coast the children and trippers had all headed into town and down towards the main promenade, leaving Donald with a peaceful walk along the cliffs to the beach. His beach. The one he wanted all to himself thank you very much.

  He took off his shoes as he reached the bottom of the long flight of steps that led down to the sand and smiled as he curled his toes in the hot dry sand. The tide was well out, the sea no more than a thin band of shimmering blue nearly half a mile away, a band that wavered and wobbled in the heat haze.

  Donald stripped off as many clothes as could be allowed and still protect his decorum and settled himself down near some rocks that might just provide some shade later in the day. He had been there for an hour, and the book had reeled him in quickly, so much so that he didn't even hear anyone approach. The first he noticed of another presence was when a shadow fell over him, the sudden change in light causing him to start violently.

  "Sorry son." a voice said. "Ah didnae mean tae gie ye a fricht."

  Donald looked up into the newcomer's face but the sun was in his eyes and all he could see was a lurking shadow, like a bear in the mouth of a cave. He shuffled backwards in the sand, feeling it rasping against his back and wondering if it was the last thing he was going to feel, before he realised how stupid he must look.

  The shadow moved and filled in with light and Donald was looking at an old man, one who had once been tall and heavily built, his stature now bent and crippled by the years. The old man put out a hand.

  "John Cameron." he said. "I didnae mean tae startle ye. That must be some book if it keeps ye fae hearing a lump like me comin' along."
/>
  Donald shook the proferred hand and felt the rough calluses like nodules on the old man's palm as he turned the book over to show the cover.

  "Hemingway eh? A drunk and a womaniser. But man, that fellow kent mair than a wee bit about life."

  Cameron sat down heavily and took a hip flask from inside his suit jacket - a jacket that seemed to have been made thirty years ago for a much bigger man.

  "Will ye join me in a wee drink?" he said, offering the flask.

  Donald declined, the first time, but as Cameron began to spin his story he found himself taking more and more sips from the proferred bottle. The old man didn't seem to notice - he was in a place long ago but not far away.

  "I don't ken why a young fellow like you should out here on his ain on a fine day like this." Cameron began, "Life is for the living. You should be out having fun - storing up memories for a time when they'll be all you'll have left."

  "I used tae come doon here years ago - when I was even younger than you. It wasnae much different then. The sun might have been a wee bit hotter and the sand a wee bit mair golden, but it was a day just like this wan that I met her."

  "She was just a wee slip o' a thing - ma hands could've fitted right round her waist. But she was bonnie, and I just had tae speak tae her. Ower there it was, " he said, waving a hand vaguely off to his left, the sun glinting off a heavy gold ring on his finger. "She had cut her foot in some glass. She wasnae going tae let me help her, but she couldnae walk."

  "I carried her up the cliff, and she was as light as a feather in ma arms. I think that was when I knew she was the one for me."

  "Of course, her mither didnae like me. That was the way of it back then. Mither's were suspicious o' anything in troosers. But I won her round in the end."

  "Three months. That's how long we had. Three months o' sunshine, sea and sand. Then the war started. I wisnae going to go. What was the war tae me - a fight between people I didnae ken in places I'd never heard of. But the polis would've got me and then where would I be?"

  "So away I went. There were tears that night - and no' just on her side. I promised tae marry her when I got back, and we sealed the bond in the big bed in the house up there."

  "And nine months later, while I was knee deep in the mud o' France, they died. Ma bonnie lassie and ma wee daughter. Baith o' them taken away frae me before I had a chance tae save them. Tears fell from the old man's eyes. Heavy tears that fell to the sand and disappeared as quickly as they had come.

  "So save up yer memories son." Cameron said, raising the flask to his lips and draining the last of the whisky. "Save them up, because ye never ken when ye might need them."

  Donald sat and stared at the old man, unable to speak. Nothing in his life so far had prepared him for dealing with such naked emotion.

  He was saved by a voice from his left.

  "Dad?" the voice said, and Donald turned to see a young woman coming towards them. She approached and stood over the old man. "Come on Dad. I'm sure this young man has heard enough of your stories. It's time to go. Everybody's waiting for you."

  She put out a hand and Cameron took it. Donald was shocked to see the bemused puzzlment on the old man's face, as if he had only just realised where he was.

  "Don't worry." the young woman said, as if reading his thoughts. "Dad's been getting a wee bit slow recently. But we'll take care of him."

  She led the old man by the hand, away from Duncan and down towards the sea.

  "Thank you for listening to his story." she said as they left. "He needed someone to hear it" Duncan watched them until they were no more than shimmering blobs against the sea, the wavering sun making it look like there were three figures rather than two. A sudden chill breeze got up, forcing him to put on his shirt, and when he looked back there was nothing to be seen but the sand and the gently breaking waves.

  He made a half hearted attempt to get back to his book, but the chill seemed to have settled in permanently and he was soon forced to abandon his place and head back for the cliff." Halfway up the cliff path he heard the insistent "nee-naw" of an ambulance or police car, but it was only when he reached the top that he saw the small crowd gathered outside the old house that sat back from the path."

  Normally he would have avoided such gatherings, never believing in being a gawker at other's tragedies, but he felt drawn to this one. An old woman was at the back of the crowd, sniffling into a handkerchief."

  "Is it no' just terrible?" she said to no one in particular. "Three weeks, and naebody even kent he was dead."

  Donald pushed closer just as the ambulance men brought a stretcher out of the house, a white sheet shielding the body from the crowd's prurient stare.

  One of the ambulance men lost his footing on the steps down to the road and the crowd gasped as a bare arm slid out from under the sheet. The ambulance man moved quickly to replace the limb and tuck the sheet firmly in place, but Donald didn't notice that.

  His mind was full of what it had seen, the sudden vision of a large calloused hand and a loose gold ring that glinted in the sun as it slid from the finger and rolled off into the grass beside the steps.

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Flower of Scotland

  Four years away, and I’d become soft; too used to heat and sand and unprepared for the rigours of a Scottish winter.

  By the time I arrived at the castle I was frozen to the bone, and my horse was lame in one leg. The snow whipped around my face like biting flies, and the wind whistled like a banshee in my ears. I have never been so happy to see a lump of rock in my life.

  Dunnotar Castle sits on a rocky outcrop, jutting out into the sea like the prow of a giant boat. The stone buildings rise almost seamlessly out of the cliffs, and it is hard to see where nature stops and man’s work begins. It is even harder to see when the wind is screaming and the snow is falling in an endless white sheet. On that night only a single light led me across the causeway, and a single guard took my horse and then showed me to the Great Hall.

  ‘Donald, Lord Allan of Strathallan.’

  A servant announced my presence in the room, and ten heads turned as I strode across the expanse of floor, trying not to seem too eager as I made my way to the fire and got my hands as close to the flames as I dared. The months in the desert had made me particularly aware of just how cold my homeland was, and on a night like this, with six inches of snow and a howling gale, I wished I had never returned. But then I would have missed my triumph.

  I could feel the heavy weight of the thing as it hung against my chest, the cold metal pressing against my skin, but I left it there. I had to wait until the right moment.

  The feeling was just coming back to my hands as I turned away from the roaring blaze and faced the room. A flagon of mulled wine was thrust at me from my right.

  ‘Here. Get this inside o’ ye.’

  Jamie, Tenth Earl of Dunnotar and Defender of the Crown’s regalia was a big man, six feet tall, broad of shoulder, with flaming red hair and a beard in which you could have hidden a family of mice. His face flickered redly in the flames and when the candlelight glinted in his eyes he looked like the devil himself. But then he laughed, and the spell was broken.

  ‘Your sojourn amongst the barbarians has enfeebled ye - eh man?’ A huge meaty palm slapped me on the back, almost making me spill my wine as he laughed again. ‘Never mind. Come and meet the gentry - we’ve got some women here that’ll bring the colour back to your cheeks.’

  I managed to avoid another slap on the back as I followed him across the room. I had not expected a social gathering - I had thought to get straight to the business - but Jamie obviously had his own games to play. I would just have to wait until the main player arrived.

  Making polite conversation had never been a favourite pastime of mine, and I am afraid that I bored the fine ladies of the court, but my mind was forever wandering back to the desert, back to that sepulchre where my long quest had reached its end. Again I touched the cold metal at my chest, and again I felt its
power, its need. It had been growing stronger during my journey, sensing we were nearing its home, the place where it still had its old, legendary strength. I hoped we knew what we were doing.

  I was standing alone by the fireplace, trying vainly to remove the chill in my bones, when the servant made the announcement I had been waiting for.

  ‘Robert, Lord of Arran, High Steward of Ayrshire, Grand Master of the Kilwinning chapter.’

  With such a build up one might have expected a formidable figure, but the man who entered looked like he was struggling to live up to his name and titles. His dress was fine enough - all wolf’s fur and soft leather, but the body inside had been racked by too much illness. He could no longer stand straight, and his back was twisted in a hunched curve. His hair hung across his scalp in a lank wave and his beard was as fine as duck down. Only his eyes seemed truly alive as he came across the room and took my hand.

  ‘Donald,’ he said, and there was genuine warmth in his voice. ‘I knew you would return. Do you have it?’

  ‘I have it,’ I said, patting my breast to show that it was safe.

  He did a jig of excitement, the reflected firelight dancing in his eyes, then clasped me around the shoulders. I had to stoop to allow him the embrace.

  ‘May I see it?’ he whispered, his voice so low that I had to strain to hear. Before I could reply, he had already pushed himself away. ‘No. It must stay hidden until the right moment.’

  I suddenly realised just how long I had been away. There was a spread of grey in Robert’s hair, a grey that had not been there when I left, four years before.

  ‘So, Donald - do ye have tales to tell, wonders to relate? I’ll wager those barbarian beauties taught you a new trick or two.’ Jamie bellowed, coming up beside me and pushing another full goblet of mulled wine into my right hand.

  ‘Can you not see it?’ Robert said, still barely above a whisper. ‘It shows in his eyes - he is not the boy we sent away. Aye - he has tales to tell - and not all of them fit for polite company, I’ll be bound. But come with me Donald,’ he added, taking me away from the fire. ‘You can tell me some of your story, at least.’