Chapter I: Claire & Claire
For a mid-term break a group of students from University of Edinburgh chose to burrow in the middle of Scottish Highlands, and spend their days macerating themselves in gallons and gallons of whisky. Their seemingly insatiable thirst for anything containing alcohol earned them a great deal of respect amongst the locals of Inverness. Jarek Kowalski, the graduate student of biochemistry from Poland, had a liver of such heroic reputation that his classmates were sure he would be memorized by a plaque above the pub's fireplace.
On this particular evening they decided to walk around the city before the mandatory visitation of their beloved pub. American take on Halloween reached even this place. The jack-o'-lanterns grinned at passers-by from every corner.* People in costumes filled the streets. Laughter and scent of food everywhere. The old castle loomed above the scenery, illuminated from bellow. The starless sky was black as ink. Cold air bit into their cheeks, but the students did not mind. John bought each of them a cup of mulled wine to chase away the chill.
Claire Wong gulped down the hot liquid, loving the way it spread its warmth in her belly. It was the last time this year she had the opportunity to enjoy herself before finishing her medical degree and starting her specialisation training.
2015 was the very last year she could stay with her friends before she leaved Edinburgh. She was never an outgoing person, and never made friends easily. Leaving Edinburgh meant become utterly alone again. Even though her mother was still alive, after father's death it seemed they would never get along. Claire liked to think herself a stoic person who would not let it get to her – but she could not lie to herself.
When they finally arrived to the pub it was half past eight. The old tavern was packed with patrons. Cacophony of English and Gaelic buzzed through the rooms. Smells of colognes, bodies and booze mixed together. The only table available was next to an armchair occupied by an old, fragile lady in green grey dress. She gave them a gentle, sweet smile. Her face was pale and wrinkled like a dried prune. Her eyes must have been golden brown before the years clouded them with cataracts.
"Good evening, madam. Would you mind if we sit here?"
"Oh, not at all, dear boy." Her voice was thin and melodic. She waited until they all sat around the table. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
"Well, we're on a vacation here," said Malcolm, the only Scottish of their bunch. "Got autumn break so we headed here to drink our brains of. Except Jarek here."
"Jarek?" The lady raised her eyebrows. "You're the Jarek the barman can't shut about?"
"I told you you'd be a legend." Jarek turned red and spoke not a word.
The lady introduced herself as Claire Randall. She must have been a beauty in her youth, Claire Wong thought. Even as a hundred-year-old granny Claire Randall had fine, symmetrical features. Despite her age she did not suffer from senility. "I used to be a doctor myself," she said. "After the war, when I returned home and got my degree." Her accent gave away her southern roots.
"You served in the second world war?" John seemed interested. "Where?"
"Oh, yes. In France… As a nurse. Until the very last day of war."
Because Young Claire's friends were a pack of blood-thirsty twats with no sense of propriety the next hour was spent by fishing the goriest stories from Old Claire. And gory they were. Apparently the woman had the worst luck with her placements, because she always ended up in the bloodiest battlefields. The barman kept bringing them tankards after tankards.
"We were all so young," Mrs Randall sighed in the end, when she run out of stories she was willing to tell. "Most of the soldiers were boys like you. Maybe even younger. Half of them had never seen a naked woman before shrapnels took away their limbs… But enough about me. Tell me about yourself! Where are you from?"
"Well, I'm from London," John said. "Um, I study engineering. Jarek here is our Polish prodigy."
"My parents are from Belgium but I was born in Birmingham," said Marie-Anne.
"And I am from Hong Kong," Young Claire said. "But I spent most of my life in Newcastle."
Two Claires happened to meet the next day by a chance.
Young Claire took a walk to a nearby park to have some fresh air. Her head was pounding. She should not have drunk so much yesterday. Given the fact that her friends were today so sickeningly sweet to her, the last night had been a disaster.
Old Claire sat on a park bench feeding bread crumbles to pigeons.
"Hello, Claire."
"Good morning, Mrs Randall."
"Would you sit with me for a moment, please?"
She saw no problem with that. So she took a place next to the old lady and watched the birds fight for the remaining crumbles.
"Do you remember anything from the night?"
"Not much."
"Well, after the third glass you started crying."
"Oh no…"
"There's no shame in the boundless sincerity caused by whisky. It is not the most productive coping mechanism, even for someone of your age, but it is a start. Obviously, there is something that makes you so sad. Maybe a talk would be helpful?"
Young Clare turned beet red. But there was no use of concealing the fact anymore, not after her drunken breakdown. The lady offered her a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on. Finally, she could at least speak about her fears aloud. While sober.
"It's just the change, you know. This year is my last in Edinburgh, and I fell in love with the city, with my friends, with my life there that it tears me to know that in a few months it will all end."
"There are worse things to happen, dear. Not that it matters."
"I know. You've no idea how stupid and weak I feel. I just… I feel like everything is slipping from me, everything that I know. First Hong Kong." It was so long ago and yet the distant memory of the city bursting with lights remained buried in her mind. Cantonese faded during the years from her tongue but she could never forget the heat, the rush, the sense of home. And now she was left rootless like a weed torn out of soil. "Then Dad." He died five years ago. Sometimes she wondered whether decision to go to medical school was more about his fight with the cancer that eventually killed him. "And finally, Edinburgh. Sometimes I wonder whether I will find anything constant in my life."
"I felt the same when the war ended," offered Old Claire. "Suddenly, I'd lost my purpose. I didn't know what to do with myself anymore. Everything seemed so mundane and pointless. I was twenty-six with no goal set before me. There were people who lost everything in war. I was lucky. My family survived, my husband lost only his faith in humanity unlike my patients who returned home limbless and scarred for life. Everyone I loved was alive. And yet it took me, the luckiest person, several years to accommodate to the new world."
Old Claire paused, frowning. A few minutes passed in a complete silence. And then, as if something occurred to her, she looked at Young Claire.
"Today I can see what a nonsense it all was. I guess it's something every person has to overcome. You have to live it through to realize it fully. You're young. Worry not, my dear." Old Claire reached to her, held her small smooth hands in her own wrinkled. "Time will sooth every pain, every fear. Don't worry, girl. You're so young, so full of strength. I envy you."
Later that day Claire decided to be the stereotypical Asian tourist and visit the nearby megalithic structure. Craigh na Dun. She butchered the pronunciation every time she tried to read the name aloud. She checked her bag for the map, umbrella, her phone and a bottle of green tea.
"Are you sure you don't want to go with us to see the Nessie?" Marie-Anne weirded her out with the sudden gentleness. From Marie-Anne, the most cynical woman she ever met, it felt not only strange but fake as well.
"Isn't the point of Nessie to be unseen?"
"You know what I mean."
"I'll pass."
"Claire…"
"Please, stop it."
"Fine, fine. Just get back by eight o'clock, okay? The train to Edinburgh leaves at nine."
She was lucky that the weather was still warm enough. Getting to Craigh by foot took at least two hours. The structure was located east to Inverness, south to Beauly Firth. Claire followed the coastline as the clouds slowly became redder and redder. She heard the traffic from roads crossing the countryside. The soft hum of the lake. Surrounded by stubble fields. Dark groves. Flock of birds crossing the deep blue sky. Was it possible for an exile to feel so in love with the foreign land? To find something to connect with, even for this one afternoon on the brink of winter. Somewhere near the horizon bonfires flared up. She stopped in her tracks. Mrs Randall was right, damn it. I am feeling sorry for myself while my life passes by.
The last hundred meters of the path lead uphill. It meandered between bushes and old dried trees. Claire gathered her long skirt into her fists and run. Sun was not set yet, though the shadows were darker and longer than before. Finally, she reached the top of the hill, breathing heavily. Took her bag off and dropped it unceremoniously onto the ground. Rubbing her sore shoulder, Claire glanced round the clearing. Leafless trees stood at least a few steps from the circle of megaliths. Yellow grass growing among the standing stones softly moved in the wind. In the very centre – the very peak of the hill – one stone towered above. She wondered why.
Claire stepped into the circle.
At first she did not notice anything extraordinary, as she made her way to the heart of Craigh. She studied her surroundings, noting the irregularities in the distances between the stones. When it dawned on her, she already faced the central stone.
The world fell completely silent. The buzz echoing from the highway disappeared. No sound from airplanes was heard. No cries of birds. Nothing. As if she suddenly became deaf. A pressure, horrible rising pressure thumped in her ribcage and ears. She started panicking. The piercing headache from the morning returned. I didn't have a syncope for years… Claire realized she was about to faint. To prevent herself from losing balance and fracturing her skull, she leant on the stone.
Her vision blackened. She collapsed.
When she regained her consciousness back, the world seemed… right again. She found herself lying on a ground near the base of the central stone. When she caught the noises made by the surrounding wildlife the pressing sensation ceased away. A relieved sigh escaped her. She tried to sit up and almost immediately regretted it. A sharp pain flashed in her head. Nausea arrived soon. Claire wondered how long was she unconscious, what time it was. The sun was hidden below the horizon, yet there was still enough light to see where she was to step. Temperature dropped at least ten degrees. Slowly and carefully she rose to her feet waiting for the dizziness to pass before moving again to the western edge of the circle, where she remembered she had left her bag. It was nowhere to be found.
"What the hell-"
A while ago Inverness shone bright to a great distance. The largest city of Highlands pulsed with life. One could not miss it at all, even in the middle of a winter night it shone not unlike a lighthouse.
Right now the city suffered a blackout. A complete blackout giving away no sign of any activity. Every single power plant in the area must have been shut down. Claire saw no lights, no traffic. She wondered what happened. It should be nearly impossible to paralyze an entire city at once.
Guns shooting resonated through the fields. Frightened birds scattered away from their nests. Someone screamed with pain and another shot followed soon. Claire ducked to the nearby bushes. Someone, a young man judging by the voice, was injured and cried in agony. Third shot and the screaming stopped forever. Claire froze in her spot.
Her mind frantically tried to come up with a plan. She did not dare to leave the relative safety of Craigh na Dun where she could at least hide and make herself as invisible as possible. But it would not last for long, she realized with a growing terror. The fight got dangerously close and she doubted the murderers would spare the sole witness out of the goodness of their hearts. Her eyes roved around the groove. In the dim light she did not see any escape route – and even if she found any, her pale grey greatcoat would make her a perfect target.
Claire strained her ears. Steps. Thunder of heavy feet striding up the hill. She curled into a ball. Male voices hissing in an undecipherable language grew louder. Too soon a band of six men appeared at the southern side of the circle. Each one of them carried a rifle and what appeared to be a broadsword.
She bit her tongue to keep herself from making a single whimper. Controlling her urge to run like a hare while shit scared turned out to be far more difficult. Don't move a bone. Don't make a noise. Play dead. Remember their faces. She kept repeating that to herself like one would recite a mantra. Over and over.
Claire watched as each man knelt behind a standing stone, the rifles prepared to kill. The closest to her was a rat-faced little man. Luckily, he did not spot her in the thorny bush. He pointed the rifle – no, a musket, she corrected – at his prey under the hill. Claire closed her eyes. Counted the passing seconds before the man fired.
Whoever they tried to kill did not give up on their lives easily. All hell broke loose as they returned the fire. Three shots filed the air with the sickening smell of burned gunpowder. None hit their intended target, the bullets deflected from the megaliths instead destroying branches, scratching the ancient stones. One bullet flew right into Claire's bush, barely missing her left arm. She could not stop the shriek from escaping her lungs. She never occurred to gunfire. She was no soldier, no hunter, she never found herself so close to her own death. The shriek was an automatic reaction. However stupid it was.
Rat Face heard her. He yelled, again, a few words in the language she did not speak. The others grunted in response, while they were rushing to recharge their guns.
"If ye want to see another day, ye'd sit there like a mouse," Rat Face gritted through his teeth. "Understand?"
Claire quickly nodded.
The flintlock clicked right before another set of fire.
* As a person who has never been to Scotland I have no idea what traditions are held in today's Inverness. Internet is a mighty tool, yet it is fallible and not always helpful. If I prickled any of my readers' national sensibilities, I'm deeply sorry.