The Willow Tree
I take a deep breath of the late afternoon air. A soft, almost gentle wind wanders aimlessly through the pale golden light of the sun, as it slants under the high, massed clouds. We've finally had our first deep freeze after a snowfall, so the sharp, cold stillness is accompanied by the tiny rustles and tinkles of a world encased in ice. I loop my arm through Jamie's, his warmth and my new jacket and cardigan letting me step out confidently into the chill. I tuck an escaping curl back under my new hat, and consider him surreptitiously while I do so.
His knee-length Macintosh currently conceals his white dress shirt and deep blue woolen pullover – a positively delicious combination he somehow manages to wear casually – and almost covers his long, long black slacks. A row of beautiful dark red curls peek out from under the band of his MacKenzie tartan cap. I inhale the faint but very present scent of the light, almost breezy cologne he's wearing.
A blush starts up to my cheeks as I recall the brief, tantalizing glimpse I got of his rear as he bent over to get his coat. . .
By all the gods that may or may not exist, this man. . .
"Ye'er looking mighty smart tonight, Sassenach," says Jamie, as we approach Leoch's main garage, "Smart. . . " he leans down and whispers in my ear, "An' edible. . ."
I squeak in surprise as he tries to nip my ear, but I twist away in time, giggling through the delicious rush of tingles that overtake me every time Jamie wants to play.
"You'll have to catch me first, you brute!"
He's fortunate that I want to play tonight too. . .
I dart into the garage, and behind the first cover I see – which is a car, unsurprisingly. Jamie follows me, by turns laughing and muttering Gaelic imprecations.
I run around and back and forth between the cars, the garage's motion-sensor lights coming on in staggered stages as I pass them, Jamie at my heels but just out of reach.
Deliberately, as it turns out. His longer stride and better knowledge of the space lets him catch me almost ridiculously easily, with a precise, hard, sharp thump, right up against the car we've borrowed for the evening.
He presses up against me, our chests heaving together, our laughter mingling in warm, panting breaths, "An' now that I've caught ye, wee vixen, what shall I do wi' ye?"
I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him securely to me. Then I wriggle a bit, just to make my point.
"What do you want to do?"
He groans helplessly, and practically falls against my mouth.
Kissing Jamie has always been a pleasure - and one I've only rarely denied myself since coming to Leoch – but tonight there is a deliberate, almost determined flavour to his caresses that I haven't noticed in them before.
Almost like the dear man wants to tell me something, but isn't sure how. . .
My mind blanks as he leaves my lips and begins on my neck. Another wave of tingles engulfs me as his freshly shaved cheeks slide like velvet against my skin, and his hot mouth nips softly at me, raising all manner of chicken-flesh everywhere.
"Mebbe," he whispers directly into my ear, "Instead of takin' ye out tae dinner, I'll jus' have ye for dinner, instead."
This time, I am the one groaning helplessly, pinned up against a cold metal car, scrabbling desperately for the clasps of our coats, needing better contact, more purchase, more skin, more something, more. . .
More.
And then, incredibly loudly, my stomach growls.
We both freeze, and blink at each other. Then, we burst out in laughter just as joyous and breathless as our kisses were a moment before.
I sigh as we wind down, and hug him, leaning my head against his chest, no longer desperate, and somehow satisfied.
"Well," I say, "We can discuss that option later, but for now, I think I am surprising no one when I say – actually, I'm hungry, please take me to dinner."
"Aye."
He grins, opens the car with a button on his keychain, and hands me gallantly into the front seat.
It's an incredibly comfortable car interior, soft and warm, smelling of sweet spices and clean, rich leather - and not at all of feed, soil, or dogs.
A rarity in my life, these days.
I notice the logo embedded in the middle of the steering yoke – a silver horse, in full gallop.
A mustang. . .
My father had a mustang skycar when I was a teenager, and I was forever pestering him to let me borrow it. The few times he did are some of my nicest memories from those years of my life.
I wonder if Jamie is willing to let me drive us home. . .
He slips into the driver's seat, and backs us out slowly. A minute later, we're on the road into Cranesmuir, the last of the sunset light tipping the snow-crusted fir trees with rubies, copper and gold.
I settle comfortably into my seat, pleased with just about everything this evening has offered so far – the weather, the company, the transport, the destination. . .
"So, tell me about where we're going, Jamie."
"Hunan Tasty Pot?" he shrugs, "Weel, it's the first Chinese restaurant in Cranesmuir owned and operated by Chinese immigrants. Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby."
"Wait," I say, incredulously, "Willoughby?"
He shrugs again, "It's what they chose. Their family crest is a willow tree, so they picked an English name that sounded as close to that as possible. His born name is Yi Tein Cho. I'd known him years before he evar told me that, an' she's nevar told me hers, even yet. He often calls her Tina, tho'. I think it's rather endearing."
"They sound nice."
"Mm. Aye, very. He helped me study for my acupuncture qualifying test six years ago, too."
I smile, "So, what are their signature dishes?"
"Well, she's famous around heer for her homemade tofu, and he's well known for his Dong'an chicken, but what the restaurant is kent for is their turtle soup."
I blink a bit, hurriedly trying to remember what a turtle is, "Good, is it?"
"I'd go so far as tae say legendary, evan. Rumour has it there's a whole bottle of sherry in evary pot." He waggles his eyebrows at me and winks, "Ye ken what they say soup like that c'n do tae ye, aye?"
"Uhm. No. No, I don't." I look at his expression again. "But I can guess."
He chuckles, low and rich in the back of his throat, "Aye. They say ye c'n never get enough. . ."
I shake my head, amused and bemused at the same time, "The wonder is that this place isn't famous over all of Europe!"
"Aye, weel," he tilts his head and winks again, "Give it time."
We pull into Cranesmuir then, and park next to the village green, right across from the restaurant. The streetlights turn on just as we walk up, fortuitously illuminating the small slate chalkboard on the porch. 'The Willow Tree', it says, followed by 'Tonight's Menu'.
I think this is odd, but Jamie is telling me about a time Rupert ate one of the more spicy dishes they offer here, and how red and sweaty his face got, and I am too busy laughing to properly ask him what's going on.
A short, pretty young Scotswoman seats us in a small dining room of darkly varnished wood and brilliant red and jade green decorations. All the light fixtures are shaded in red, and there are jade green ceramic pots everywhere. I can't stop looking around at how different and beautiful it all is. I've never seen a combination of red and green that did not in any way evoke Christmas before, but this doesn't. I would have thought it would be darkly oppressive too, what with all the heavy wood construction and dim lighting, but somehow it's cozy, not cave-like. There are several other couples in the room, and though we can hear their low conversations, we are all in nicely partitioned booths, so no one's conversations interrupts anyone else's.
Our server comes up to us, a tall and very chipper blond. She's obviously a local, in both her dress and her accent.
"Och, it's been tae long since ye were heer, wee Jammie!" she smiles at Jamie. Then she turns to me, just as friendly, but not so instantly familiar, "An' who is this, then?"
Jamie smiles back, "'Tis good tae see ye too, Kee. This is Claire – my girl."
She grins even wider, "Agh! Good for ye!" She taps me lightly on the shoulder with her pen, "Ye'ev got a good 'un heer, ye ken. 'Tis grand tae see him out an' about wi' a girl – he's tae often aloon."
"Awright, tha's enough, Kenina," says Jamie, gently chiding, "I ken weel enough this entire town's been plotting tae pair me off for the last four years – weel now I've finally got a girl, ye ken? Ye c'n stop rootlin' in my business now, aye?" He waggles a finger at her, clearly teasing, but there is something serious in his voice too.
"Agch! Ye'er nae fun," she slaps me lightly with her floppy paper note pad, "Make sure ye teach him how tae have fun, aye?"
I'm practically exploding with restrained laughter, so I only nod, and mutter, "Oh, I will," from behind the hand I have clapped over my mouth.
"The menu, Kee?" asks Jamie, rolling his eyes and exaggerating the world-weary exasperation in his tone.
"Ah. Aye." Kee composes herself and begins to speak in a formal manner that clashes awfully with her sweet, casual demeanor. "Taenight we have radish galette or Scotch eggs for starters," she says, flatly, as though she's reading aloud from a list, "Then French onion soup, an' warm tomato salad, then ribeye steak wi' caramelized honey carrots or baked potato for main, an' chef's special spice-glazed walnut butter cake for afters." Her voice relaxes a bit, and she nods encouragingly at us both, "We c'n do several things à la carte – an omelet, for example, or onion rings, or chips, or a vinaigrette salad – but those may take a bit longer than our set menu. There are two house red wines – a dry and a sweet – a local ale, an' a local whisky." Finally, she grins naturally again, and she clicks her pen open, "Sae what's yer pleasure taenight?"
Jamie looks questioningly at me.
I nod the choice back over to him, too confused at the moment to form sentences longer than a few words, "You order, Jamie. You know the place better."
"Alright. We'll have the set-up. Scotch eggs, carrots, steak medium rare. A carafe of dry red, an' two sides of French bread wi' browned butter à la carte. Sound good, mo ghràidh?"
I nod, a little bewildered. I've been at Leoch long enough now that I know what steak is – I've even seen a few – but I've never eaten one. I find I'm looking forward to it, even through my bewilderment.
"Sounds lovely."
And it does.
Except. . .
Kee writes up the order, and strides away, without a care.
"Jamie," I lean forward and whisper to him when she's gone, "This. . . none of this is Chinese food! Where's the tofu? Where's the turtle? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby?"
He looks at me very strangely for a minute or two – long enough, in fact, for Kee to return with our bread and butter, two wine glasses, and a tall carafe of wine, and then leave us again.
"I. . ." he starts, very carefully, "I ken ye'ev been fair hard up against it for a year or more, mo nighean donn. But. . . is it possible ye dinnae ken anything about The Clearings? They ended last year, it's true, but they'd been happenin' for years beforehand. Did'ye never know? Were ye never told?"
The Clearings. . .
The Clearings. . .
My mind scrambles so hard it practically slides off the term. Yes, it rings a few bells – Lamb mentioned it once, hadn't he? And I vaguely recall the word being mentioned a time or two in my Primary history classes.
"Yes," I say, slowly, "I've heard of it, a bit, but. . ." I desperately force my next words not to be a lie, "But things are so different where I'm from. We aren't told. . . well. . . people just don't say."
Jamie nods, sadly. "Aye, that I can well believe."
He sighs heavily, and composes himself to explain.
"After the Dissolution Act an' the forming of the Independence Committees, evary part of the former U.K. has been required tae restructure their governmental and social systems tae a stable an' independent format. Each place might do this as they see fit, but allus under the guidance an' partially under the control of designated overseers, an' a band of specially allocated Peace Agents."
He practically spits the last two words. Given what I've seen and experienced of Black Jack, I can hardly blame him.
"Weel. All that started about five years ago. An' one of the first things the Peace Agents did was sweep the country of "all immigrants an' foreign nationals". They called it The Clearings, jus' tae rub it in our faces. . ."
Now I remember Lamb talking about this. I remember how flabbergasted I was when he did, too. I am not any less so now.
"But why, Jamie? What possible use would doing that be? And there's dozens of people, just at Leoch, from New Zealand, and South Africa, and America, and Canada. Now. Still. Why weren't they-"
He looks at me pityingly, "Sassenach. . . it wasnae immigrants they wanted tae to steal from us. It was black an' brown people."
"But. . . but why, Jamie?"
He shrugs, "Revenge, I suppose."
"Revenge? For what?"
He runs a hand across his chin, and scratches his ear, "Culloden, I think. All the Jacobite risings, really. An' Robert The Bruce."
"But all that's ancient history!"
"No' if yer Scottish. We keep auld things well up in our hearts. Alba gu Bràth, ye ken?"
"Okay. But. . . but. . . how does deporting people who don't look stereotypically Scottish wreak revenge on you?"
He looks at me, confused, shocked, and a little wary, "Ye're usually so much more aware of how politics works, Sassenach. By forcibly removing people along racial lines, they not only weakened our economy and culture, they deliberately emboldened a White Supremacist mindset. Both of these things together might, if we let them, make things so miserable in Free Scotland that we petition to have the English back in power, independence notwithstanding."
The truth of his words hit me like careening skycar. But it's not shocking to me that I never thought of it like that, because -
"That's. . . that's. . ."
"Machiavellian? Evil? Yes. Now ye ken why Sassenach usually isno' a pretty thing tae be around here. Weel, another reason, anyway."
"But - you aren't going to let it work, are you?"
"Nah," he smiles, and waves his hand to indicate the dining room around us, "Take this place, y'see. There's millions of places like it all up and down Scotland now. Businesses an' homes an' property still owned by immigrants an' outsiders, but being stewarded and cared for by their neighbors, until we're fully independent, an' can welcome them back."
A bit of hope rises in me, and more patriotic feeling for Scotland than I've ever felt for anywhere before. "Where did they all go, Jamie? Where were they sent?"
"Lots of places. England mostly. There's some enormous squatter settlements around York these days, I'm told. Many were sent tae France, some tae Spain. A few tae Germany. A few planeloads went tae the U.S. A goodly number had no option but tae join the Watch."
"The Watch?"
"Aye. Roving bands of outlaws, escapees, runaways an' deserters – they're the ones who attacked ye yer first night across the border, aye? Anyone out and about after dark is fair game, but an English car wi' English plates would be more fair than usual."
"Oh. . . Yes, Colum mentioned them to me. I remember now."
"But nearly all of our deported people have homes an' a life tae come back to when it's over – even though there was a clause in the Act that made it legal for folk to repossess whate'er was taken from a deported person, virtually no one did." He smiles proudly, and I quite agree with him, "Even pets an' gardens are bein' taken care of, jus' waitin' for them tae come home."
His face falls at the last word, and he goes silent for a while.
I leave him be, and pour out the wine. It is deep, and dry, and delicious, and pairs perfectly with the fresh, soft bread, and nutty, toasted butter.
He sips at his wine, and drizzles spoonfuls of the butter over his bread, but doesn't eat it.
"Ye ken," he says at last, "The Clearings are why I'm on the run?"
"No, I didn't. I know there's a murder you're accused of, but that's all you or anyone has told me about it."
He nods, solemnly, "They came for Ian. The Peace Agents did. Black Jack an' his cronies."
"Ian? But why?"
He laughs, not at all cheerfully, "Because he's black, Sassenach. His whole family is. An' the irony of it all is that the Murrays were Scottish before the English throne was."
"Huh."
"Aye. The injustice gets tae ye, doesn't it? The original ones werenae even slaves – they made a packet workin' on independent spice trader ships, bought a goodly slice of ancient Fraser land, an' were well an' fully established a whole fifteen years before England decided tae borrow James the Sixth an' put us all in this mess. My Da had tae buy land from them tae build our house. That's how Scottish they are."
"So what happened?"
"Well, we were all in the dining room, celebrating Jenny an' Ian's first anniversary, when a pack of Agents rolled up an' practically knocked the door down. Black Jack was leading 'em, so they were ruthless as all hell. We all resisted, except auld Mrs. Murray, but nothing was goin' tae stop them from arresting evary last one of the. . . the. . ." he coughs a little, and makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "The "black racial slur racial slurs"."
"But – they didn't end up arresting them, did they?"
He smiles a great, lopsided grin, "Nae. They didnae. I saw tae that. I made sure Black Jack arrested me instead."
"Oh. But how?"
Happy reminiscence fills his eyes, "I gave him a right wallop across the face. I was wearin' my da's ring at the time too – sliced his cheek wide open, an' broke his nose inta the bargain." He chuckles darkly, "He was sae furious he demanded I go wi' them, an' I said I'd go quietly if they left my family alone."
The happiness drains slowly out his expression.
"And did they?"
"Oh, aye. They ought nevar tae have been there tae begin wi'. They just spotted Ian in town one day, an' jumped tae the wrong conclusion." He sighs a little, and finally starts to eat his bread. "I was in their lockup for a few days, but then they let me out. That was when. . ." He trails off for a moment, but then gives himself a shake, "I didnae even know a guard had been killed that same night until a week later, when one of the Broch Mordha lads came to warn us. That's when I fled tae Leoch."
"They didn't follow you? Pursue you?"
"That's the beauty of it, Sassenach." He sops up the last drops of butter with the heel of the loaf, "Leoch is officially registered Clan territory. Peace Agents arenae allowed tae go onto registered clanlands. Which, I grant ye, isnae perfect protection, but it's something. And wi' Collum and Dougal's status and influence. . ." he shrugs, "I just have tae hide a few years more. Then any outstanding warrants will be handed over to the Scottish authorities, an' then I'm home free."
"Scot free?"
He chuckles at the pun, "Aye. Something like that."
Our dinner arrives at this moment, and we both settle down to the business of eating.