Swear Words
"On the fiiiifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to meeeeee – five gol-den riiiiiiiings-"
"Agch, enough, Fergus, ya wee plague!"
Jamie jumps up from his couch, and starts chasing Fergus around the room, a mock-serious scowl on his face. Fergus darts away, laughing while continuing to sing.
"Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves-"
Jamie catches him, and holds him upside-down, where he swings while triumphantly squeaking out the last line of the verse - "
"-and a paaaaaartridge in a pear treeeeeeeeee-"
Jamie growls like a cartoon lion, and lightly tosses Fergus onto the nearby bed. He bounces for a few seconds, squealing with laughter.
"On the siiiixth day-"
"Arrrgh!" Jamie pounces then, and starts tickling Fergus, until he's laughing so hard he cannot continue singing.
Very soon, he clings onto Jamie's neck, "Throw me again, papa, throw me again!"
Chuckling, Jamie scoops him up, and tosses him onto the middle of the bed. He bounces up, claps his hands and yells "Again, again!"
Jamie does.
"Again, again!", says Fergus, rolling on the rumpled quilt, and pushing back his magnificently tousled curls, "Again, again!"
And again, Jamie does, and again and again, and again, until finally he flops down next to our still-laughing son, "Agh! I'm too young tae be feelin' this old, Fergus, lad!"
In response, Fergus rattles off something unintelligible in what I assume is Gàidhlig, so glibly that Jamie sits up, laughing incredulously.
"An' wheer exactly did ye learn tae cuss like a Scot, lad?"
Fergus digs in his pocket, and brings out a small booklet, "It was in my stocking this morning – from Hamish – and at breakfast he said anything from it could liven up any conversation."
"The Bonnie Book of Barkit Bangers and Baws, a Treasury of Scottish Slang," Jamie reads out the title, voice unbelieving, "For Bampots, Belters, Burds, and Bairns of All Ages."
He sits and blinks for a minute, then throws his head back, and laughs. Then he shakes his head, "Fergus, laddie, the day may come when ye cease tae surprise me, but that day is not taeday." He taps the little paper book, "Jus' remember that if somethin' can only refer to a person – no' their actions or their choices – only the person – there's a chance it's a slur. An' there's no good use of slurs. Ye mus' think befoor ye speak. Ken?"
Fergus nods, and Jamie musses his already thoroughly mussed hair, pulling him in for a hug. He pulls away with one last bounce on the bed, "I must go now, papa, the movies will start soon."
"Aye, I recall. They mean tae put on a show for the weans during the Oathtaking, yes?"
Fergus nods, "Three movies, yes. One in each classroom. We all voted yesterday."
"Oh aye? An' which three won?"
"Elf, Home Alone, and Die Hard."
I close my book, not that I've been reading it anyway, "Die Hard? What is that about?"
"I do not know. I voted for Gremlins."
"Oh," I shrug, never having heard of any of the movies he's mentioned, "My family always used to watch Casablanca. . ."
"Eli said we could put Skittles in our popcorn, too."
"Exciting."
I smile as Fergus hugs me, and scampers out of Jamie's rooms. I look after him fondly for a minute, then turn to Jamie.
"So. . . exactly how long did you think before you started calling me Sassenach, you bloody beastly Scot?" I grin mischievously, and go over to him, standing between his knees, and resting my arms on his shoulders, "Or does that slur not count?"
He kisses my chin, "I thought a good bit, in fact, mo chridhe," he leans in and whispers in my ear, "Tha gaol agam ort," he nuzzles against my neck a little, "An' I dinnae think it is a slur, really, tae point out that ye'er different," he pulls back and smirks at me, looking me up and down, "I have said that I like that part about ye, have I not?"
"Not that I recall. Not in so many words."
"Oh? Remiss of me, then. . ."
He pulls the neckline of my shimmery dark-gray dress to the side a little, and nibbles along my collarbone for a minute, before running the tip of his tongue up my neck until he reaches the fancy black lace cord-necklace of his I'm wearing. He wraps his lips around it, and tugs, not hard, but enough to send surprising tingles down my back, all the way to my toes.
"Dhia, ye'er incredible," he mutters into my skin, "A true Sassenach – unlike anyone I've evar met before," he kisses across my jaw, and runs a thumb over my lips, "An' tha's a good thing. A precious thing. A delicious thing. . ."
He pulls my mouth down to his, his tongue tracing where his thumb just was.
I sigh as I let him in. Good lord this man can make me feel things. . .
Wanted. . .
Important. . .
Alive. . .
"Not that. . . this isn't. . . fun and all. . ." I say, pausing every few words to kiss him again, "But the Oathtaking is about to begin, isn't it?"
"Aye. It is."
"Did you get the Stage Four stuff to Leticia?"
He huffs a little laugh, "Bit late tae be askin', but yes. Handed it off tae her yesterday. She said she'd manage it."
"Are you sure it'll be strong enough?"
"My formula? It could take down an army."
I chuckle, "Heh. Just one man is all we need. But strategically. Do you think he noticed it?"
"In the lamb stew we had for lunch? Nae'un could detect horse apples if they were slipped inta Mrs. Fitz's gravy."
I laugh loudly, "I'm sure she'd love to hear that. . ."
"Figure of speech, Sassenach – nothin' more. He'll nevar ken what hit him." He kisses me soundly on the cheek, then gets up, "Come and find me in the stables when ye've seen enough, aye?"
"I will."
I squeeze his arm, then let him go.
Slowly, I make my way to the Great Hall balcony. I'm greeted there by many members of the household, and several people from the village that I've met, including Ellie and Mr. Carter, who own the milk bar.
"Here tae see the fun?" asks Ellie.
I tilt my head a little, not quite saying yes, "Something like that – though nothing I've read about an Oathtaking has suggested it's a particularly fun event. . ."
"Och, on paper it isnae – but in real life? Tae see the high an' mighty MacKenzies – schemers one an' all – tae be made tae kneel before their master, an' acknowledge he's bettar than them? Oor more in control, a'least?" she makes a kissing gesture, "Wonderful."
I smile, "I suppose the prospect does have it charms, certainly."
"Aye, that it does."
"This is the first Oathtaking since the Clan Restoration Act, isn't it?"
"For Clan MacKenzie it is, aye. An' there's dozens more household-heads here now than there were individual MacKenzies in the whole of Scotland the last time."
"That many?"
"Aye. We'll be here hours."
She smiles at the idea, as though a couple hundred men repeating the same, time-worn words continuously will be entertaining for no matter how long it takes to get through them all.
I shrug. To each their own.
I lean on the balcony's sturdy wrought-iron railing, and peer down at the Great Hall's stage. It is very clearly a dais today, with one very sophisticated wooden throne set in the exact middle of it. The only other furniture on the stage is a small, ornately carved side table, with a large ceramic jug, and a brightly polished brass two-handled cup atop it. If my research into Oathtakings is at all accurate, this would be the Loving Cup, and the Oathwine, a "light or moderate ale, a gentle wine, or a well-watered whisky", from which both the oath-taker and the Chieftain must drink, to seal their alliance. In times gone by, it was not unknown to spike the Oathwine with all manner of things - from the harmless, like vinegar or garlic - to the stomach-churning, like mustard seed, bayberry, or salt - to the technically non-lethal, like bitter cascara, animal dung, or rotted milk. Sometimes, it was merely that the whisky wasn't watered at all, leaving each Oathtaker unharmed, but the Chieftain made to drink perhaps two full liters of undiluted spirits.
Part of the drama, as I understand it, is to watch and see how long the Laird can stand it.
Well, that's what I'm counting on, at least. . .
There is a short fanfare from two of the Cuckoos In The Grove bagpipers. Very quickly, the Great Hall goes quiet. Slowly, Colum enters through the right rear door. His prosthetic carries him up the dais, where he stops, and steps out of it. Then, he settles himself regally on the throne, sitting very upright, and proud as anything. I must admit, I am surprised he hasn't insisted Hamish be here too, as the heir apparent of all this. Or I am until Dougal arrives, that is.
There is no fanfare for him, but the silently parting crowd, and his dignified journey up the whole length of the Great Hall to kneel before the dais is even more impressive, and to anyone watching who doesn't know both Colum and Dougal very well, the thought might just arise that the Lairdship is. . . well. . . a bit misplaced.
I nearly applaud. The man is brilliant, I have to give him that.
A brilliant snake, but still. . .
Of course today is a battle between brothers – probably both of them have independently seen to it that Hamish is completely out of the equation.
Into the silence, Dougal's voice booms out the first part of the Oath, in deep, ringing Gàidhlig. Then he stands, takes up the Loving Cup, and salutes Colum, saying,
"Today, it is my great honour tae be the furst among many tae pledge tae ye my fealty, my love, an' my obedience," he raises the cup even higher, "For my allegiance is tae the name that we bear, my Laird, my Chief, my dear brother. . ." he drinks deeply from the cup, then offers it to Colum.
He takes it, and drinks as well, "We are honoured by your pledge, and humbled by your humility."
Dougal goes back to his knees, and delivers the second half of the prescribed Oath, in the same loud, melodious Gàidhlig as before. When he is done, at a gesture from Colum, Dougal rises again, and goes to stand next to the great wooden throne, facing the crowd.
I watch a line form behind the next person who comes forward to kneel before Colum and give the Oath, barely seeing any of them, I am so bewildered with shock and disbelief.
This, I did not expect.
That Dougal would put himself forward to take the Oath first, yes, I'd anticipated that, and so had Jamie, from moment one. We had even surmised that Dougal would be given a place on the dais – though we hadn't been sure of that, so it is good to see our theory confirmed. But in none of mine and Jamie's planning had either of us expected that Dougal would change the Oath.
In the old days, like kilts, and tartan patterns and colours, and most other things, each Clan had taken the Oath in their own way, haphazardly and informally building up individualized rituals surrounding a core of basically accepted practices. But, after centuries of oppression, and generation after generation of imposed rules from an outside culture, the forms and words of the Oath became much more rigidly prescribed – like kilts, and like tartans had too.
In the Clan Restoration Act, there is an entire section detailing exactly how the Oath must be taken, and to who, and in what order their actions must be.
By making his own speech in the middle, and drinking to the Chieftain out of order, I think, technically, legally – Dougal hasn't taken the Oath at all.
Which if so, means that as War Chieftain, his having a place on the dais means something else entirely now.
Technically speaking, everyone in Clan MacKenzie is pledging the Oath to Dougal, as well.
I shake my head.
A brilliant, brilliant snake.
I've seen enough. Far more than enough.
I'd better get out of here before Stage Four happens.
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. . .
