I had never been good with boys when I was in school, never had a relationship or been close friends with any of them. My friends cycled through guys like shoes, old ones were tossed and new ones sought after until they themselves were old news too.
Not me. I just wasn't noticeable. Although it seems rare in current day society, I was happy with what I looked like. My body was good, I hadn't always liked it but once you realize that your stuck with it for life, you begin to let it grow on you. At least I did. My face wasn't too bad either, I was no ethereal beauty, or sparkling homecoming queen, but I wasn't an ogre. I had a strong chin, and long nose, my eyes were pool-like, with those squiggly little ripple reflections. I did suffer from bitchy resting face, and usually that was what I blamed my lacking love life on. I told myself that boys were too timid and shallow to be willing to see if the mean-looking girl was actually nice underneath her cold façade. I told myself that once college began, the men there would be more mature, more appreciative of a real woman. A woman with flaws and imperfections, not a girl as perfect and unoriginal as a doll.
But then I got sucked into a rock and sent back a few millennium.
So who knows if my hypothesis of college boys was right, their all Scottish warriors here.
But I'm not so sure that's such a bad thing.
A blue eyed, strong jawed, scarred boy stood before me. The savior of my ribbon and now my dignity. We stood together at the foot of a massive tapestry, a picture of a bloody and glorious hunt painted in thread. As we sat there in the flickering light of the candles mounted on the wall, something occurred to me.
"Your name", and then realizing that that was neither a complete sentence nor a question, I blushed and tried again.
"What's your name?" He smiled at my faux pas, which only made my heart beat faster and face blush redder.
"Ye can call me Scot, or Scottie, thas' what the castle calls me a' least". The response I had at the ready died in my throat.
"You're a scot named Scot?" I asked incredulously. He grimaced and the scar next to his lip crinkled as his mouth formed a delicate pout.
"My da was a' Irishman and his marriage to my ma was no', let's say 'ideal'. My grandda, when he heard o' my birth, said tha' without a Scottish da, I myself was no' a scot. My ma dinna take kindly ta' that and named me Scotland, in her words; 'if he canna be Scottish, he'll be Scotland instead'."
I smiled and bit down on a laugh, his mother sounded spectacular. He watched my expression and let out a held breath,
"Aye, you can laugh"
"No no!" I said, afraid he'd think I was teasing, "It's just," I tried to come up with relevant time-appropriate term, "Your mother sounds like such a bad ass", I finished with a breathy laugh. His eyes widened and I realized that there was a serious misunderstanding about to take place, and I was going to need to explain. Fast.
"Where I'm from 'bad ass' means tough, fearless and strong. Not.." he nodded his head, telling me to go on,
"Not a bad butt", I cringed as the words left my mouth, my lack of experience with boys was clearly showing, going off of my tact with conversation alone. His eyes sparkled and he put his head back, letting out not a deep, booming chortle as one might think, but a silly little giggle. The sound a young boy would make at a goofy little joke from a peer. My face lit up and it took everything in me not to release the smile that threatened to split my face.
"Aye" he said as his giggle faded away, "Thas' it then, I'll have ta' tell her tha' one, she'd get a good laugh outta tha'." I gave him a controlled peek at the grin I was fighting away, just as my stomach growled.
"Excuse my obnoxious friend here", I said as I pointed to my stomach, because clearly the way to woo a guy is to draw attention to your loud bodily sounds, "But do you think the kitchen would mind terribly if a few items went missing?"
"I have a better idea" he said in response, motioning for me to follow as he set off down the corridor. We retraced our steps back to the kitchen within minutes, taking care to skirt the main entrance to the dining hall. But instead of going to where the food was made, Scot had a different idea; we set up camp outside one of the servant entrances into the Great Hall. He motioned for me to stand up straight with my hands settled stiffly behind my back, like the help did when serving the upper echelon. Together we stood firmly against the wall, more like statues than human beings. Before long a young man came bustling down from the kitchens in a tizzy, a platter in his hand, oblivious to our presence until he was right on top of us.
"Ho' there brother!" Scot said, a charming smile on his face as he took a step forward, "Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons be tellin' us ta' help out with tha' serving tonight, may we take tha' heavy load from yer' weary hands?" The man looked skeptically between myself and his savior, weighing the consequences, I assumed. Clearly they were not anything to worry over, or Scot was just a better liar than I realized because the man surrendered the tray instantly; into the victorious hands waiting before him.
"See tha' the Laird is served first, an' work yer way out from there," the young server said with an exhausted high pitched huff. Scot nodded eagerly, back as straight as a rod and looking comical. With one last withering glance in our direction, the man was headed back to the kitchen in a flurry of panicked activity. Scot looked down and examined the silver dish in his hands, the fire from the wall mounted torches reflected off the shiny surface distractingly,
"How do assorted meats sound?" He said, I smiled in response and replied,
"I have the perfect dining place in mind, and it comes with a bonus meal too".
Together we made our way to the gardens, the moon was barely a sliver of a crescent tonight, but it was bright enough to give off a gentle light to illuminate our path. A warm, rolling breeze played with our hair and ran lightly across my skin. Luckily the ground was dry; firm, hard-packed and dusty from the traffic of feet. Scot found a mossy portion of ground against the castle wall; his long legs bent with the grace of a warrior as he folded himself into a sitting position. Setting the platter on his lap, he patted the springy greenery with his hand and said,
"Take a seat". I shook my head and resumed my search through the garden, letting the night air swallow the rapid beats of my heart and hide the flushing mess that was my face.
"I have to get our bonus first!" I said, once I was confident that my voice would come out steadily. He watched my movements curiously whilst avidly digging into the assortment of meats. After a few minutes of no success, in which I questioned my botany skills, I recognized a familiar green tuft poking out of a freshly tilled mound of Earth. Taking care not to trample the other plants around me, I knelt down and dug out the dirt around my buried treasure. With only a few swift tugs, I had uncovered four, rather large, brown carrots; roughly the length of my palm.
From there I brought the veggies to the corner of the courtyard, where an ancient and weathered stone well sat. It's bricks were mossy and worn, and the wooden bucket had easily seen at least twenty years of frequent use. As rare as it is, luck was with me at that moment, as someone had used the well earlier and left a few inches of fresh water at the bottom of the bucket. Therefore I wouldn't have to embarrass myself by trying to figure out how a well worked and if I even had the strength to operate it.
With my nails, I made sure to scrap away the majority of the dirt and grime that coated the earthy carrots, washing the evidence away in the bucket's puddle. Once the carrots were a glistening shade of bright orange, I walked back to Scot's place against the wall, all the while his skeptical eyes tracked the suspicious objects in my hands.
"Ye know tha' their supposed ta' be cooked right?" His little, white mouth scar puckered again as his lips folded into a grimace. Just as I lifted one of the offending vegetables to my mouth and took a large, cracking bite.
"A lie," I said as I swallowed, "they're just as good raw as they are cooked", I took another bite, "Some would say better even." I finished. He hesitantly took one of the orange monsters from my fingers, flicked off a remnant of dirt and raised it to his mouth,
"If I die from this, I'm comin' back ta' haunt you first".
Although he might have been a highland warrior trained and honed to battle any enemy that crossed his path, Scot's bravery when it came to food was ultimately dismal. He bit delicately into the cone shaped vegetable, making a small indentation; something resembling a mouse nibble. He chewed slowly, his face a mask of apprehension as he waited for the expected toxins to kick in. Watching carefully, I exposed a smile as his face formed a disappointed expression and he said,
"Aye, it seems safe enough," he handed the rest of the carrot back to me, "I prefer em' in their rightful form however" he added, before his attention was relocated to the mountain of meats still at home upon his lap. I finished off his discarded carrot and started on the third, the familiar taste calling up images of home. Before I could stop myself I said,
"If you think that's decent, you should taste it with some Ranch." Scot paused with a roll of ham on track towards his mouth.
"Ranch?" he said, "Either I'm a bit loose in the head or there's another thing called ranch besides a' place ta' store livestock?" He finished questionably. Mentally I was thwacking my head, I would need to be more careful of my words from here on out. Too many slip ups and I'd be burned as a witch, or something along those lines.
"Where I'm from, Ranch is the name of a tasty sauce, usually eaten with raw vegetables like these carrots," I gestured to the object in my hand before taking another snapping bite.
"Ahh," He nodded, "I see now. Maybe ye' can make me some o' this Ranch one day, I'm sure Mrs. Fitz-Gibbon has the necessary ingredients." He nodded again and looked off into the distance, lost in his thoughts. I laughed in my head, unless Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons had some high fructose corn syrup in that pantry, we might be out of luck.
Together we sat in a comfortable silence, him munching away at his meats, me snapping and cracking my way through the carrots. The moon played peek-a-boo with the clouds, casting her light upon us before the fog threw a blanket of darkness across the garden. The wind tickled my ears and whistled through the crops; teasing their leaves to and fro in a timeless dance.
"Forgive me for askin'," Scot said quietly, so much so that I had to turn my head to hear him, "But where exactly are ye' from?" he finished. His eyes scanning across the yard to latch on to mine. I knew this was coming. He hadn't asked me earlier, despite our full conversation in which my accent had been on display. However he wasn't oblivious to my circumstances either, I would bet my right arm that he had heard of my mysterious appearance at the castle and the secret behind my nationality.
And suddenly before me was a forked path. How much of the truth should this stranger be privy to? Should I weave up a fantastical lie? A story of a daring capture and struggle? Maybe throw in a few pirates for dramatic appeal?
Or should I tell the truth. Which would amazingly be less believable than a story involving pirates and a transcontinental journey at this point.
Time travel, as pop culture taught us, was never an easy sell.