The Mountains Of Home

It's a couple of days later, once again in a tiny pub, in a village I don't know the name of that my revenge really starts, however.

It's our second to last day with the camera crew, and our last stop along the shores of Loch Ness for weeks. We go back into registered Clan lands tomorrow – there's going to be a whole ceremony when we leave State-controlled territory and everything. There's a little informal cèilidh in the pub tonight, meant to be a sort of farewell party. To the crew? To the wider world? To Nessie? I'm not entirely sure.

But I do know the pub room is packed, and that the musicians on the little stage at one end are really very good. Not perhaps in Gwyllyn's class, but still very impressive nonetheless. I can hear the whole crowd singing along, and the enthusiastic dancing even in my room two floors up.

I come down after the music is well along, to maximize my chance of making an entrance. I don't get to, as it happens, since the room is so unbelievably full. Fortunately, Ned has saved a place for me at the bar, and ordered me a plate of steak and chips before the food ran out. I thank him profusely, and as I eat I relax a little into the comfort a full caf always gives me.

I dreamed about the Skycities last night. Great mountains of metal, gleaming in places, rusty in others, floating over a glowing sea that reflects the pinpricks of starlight in the clear, dusky sky. The Spire glitters with artificial lights, and the Safnet screens shimmer red-gold.

A cheer goes up around me, reminding me just how alive things are in this time, and how dead things are in mine.

I sigh.

My past three weeks have been almost entirely gloomy grey skies, and old, dirty snow. There was a film of ice over the water in my washbasin this morning.

I think I am allowed to miss my home every now and then. . .

I just wish I didn't feel guilty about it.

I am going to miss this old Scotland, of course. I'll probably never see trees again, or the clean ocean, probably never have steak again, or real butter, or chocolate, or strawberries, or pizza.

But I have proven I can be a farm manager, to myself at the very least. And I think I've made enough connections in Central Township as a power peddler to at least leverage an interview with one of the big farming concerns. All I want is enough of a salary to get me off the Rim. I'll even live in Core Township if I have to, but I want a house, food, and steady work. I can make a big company see I'm worth that. I am worth that.

And it will be nice to see Lamb again, of course. I think of his boyish eagerness, his all-in attitude, his utter dedication to this project of his, and I smile. He of all people won't be upset at me. Not for coming home, not for failing to change the past, not for being so overwhelmed by it all.

And not for making friends in the past either. . .

I smile at Ned, as he talks to his other neighbor at the bar. I'll miss him. And Geordie too, and Murtagh, Gil, Harry, Annie, Mrs. Fitz, Coira, Ev, and many, many more.

And Fergus most of all, naturally.

My lovely little prince, Fergus. . .

I've spent most of today trying to find the right way to phrase it.

"Darling, maman is from the future. . ."

"My dear, I'm not from this time. . ."

"Wee Fergus, lad, there's something I must tell you. . ."

If I can find the right way to say it to him, I can find the right way to say it to-

My wandering eyes catch a glimpse of bright red curls escaping from underneath a cap of MacKenzie tartan.

Jamie hasn't come down to eat with the rest of the party for the entire time the camera crew has been with us, but I suppose he figured the room is so crowded tonight, he might manage to avoid being noticed.

A cold pit of loneliness opens in my stomach.

I want Frank.

I need Frank.

But Frank is dead.

Frank won't be born for another two hundred years.

And in two hundred years, he'll be dead.

My arms are so very empty, and my skin is practically starving for touch. Hell, I haven't even touched myself in over three weeks. I haven't had the energy, or the desire.

I push away the remnants of my supper. There's nothing I can do to fill the ache inside me, and the pub doesn't have enough alcohol to make me forget.

It doesn't matter how much they actually have – it isn't enough.

I order a beer anyway. Maybe it'll take the edge off.

I can only hope. . .

During a lull in the music, one of the villagers gets up on stage, and speaks in the Gàidhlig for a couple of minutes. I pick up a few words here and there, but I'm not quite knowledgeable enough yet to parse full sentences. I think he was saying something about friendship and sharing. . .

It's all made clear a moment later, when one of our party gets up on stage, and proceeds to sing a pop song. It's been translated into the Gàidhlig, but it is very clearly a pop song. Several other people follow him, members of our party and villagers alike – even one member of the camera crew.

I see the editor and director encouraging Dougal to go up and show us his stuff next – and he has proven he does have a very pleasant singing voice before now.

So, of course, I know what I have to do.

I whisper my plan to Ned before getting up to skirt the crowd as best as I can, and his voice follows me into the press of people -

"Bu' I thought you couldnae speak the Gàidhlig?"

I can't.

But I can sing it. . .

I make it to the stage a bare few seconds before Dougal does. But as I predicted, my bright red dress and feminine appearance strikes such a contrast to the rest of our party, a bit of a cheer goes up the minute most of the crowd sees I'm volunteering, and Dougal has to back off a little. I can feel his eyes on me though. . .

I force myself to ignore him.

"Chì Mi Na Mòrbheanna," I say to the lead musician, a little breathlessly, and a little more than badly pronounced. I gather myself for a second, then say it again, very carefully, "Chì Mi Na Mòrbheanna."

He still looks a little confused, so I turn to the mic, and launch into the first chorus a cappela -

"O chì, chì mi na mòr-bheanna,
O chì, chì mi na còrr-bheanna,
O chì, chì mi na coireachan,
Chì mi na sgoran fo cheò."

Oh, I see, I see the great mountains, oh, I see, I see the lofty mountains, oh, I see, I see the Corries, I see the peaks beneath the mist. . .

I close my eyes and see Skycity 15, old and rusty and ugly and beautiful, and home. . .

The musicians understand me now, and start up the music, soft and slow at first, building to something quite wonderful.

"Chì mi gun dàil an t-àite san d'rugadh mi,
Cuirear orm fàilte sa chànain a thuigeas mi,
Gheibh mi ann aoidh agus gràdh nuair a ruigeam,
Nach reicinn air tunnachan òir."

I see, straight away, the place of my birth. I will be welcomed in a language which I understand. I will receive hospitality and love when I reach there, that I would not trade for a ton of gold. . .

For reasons I do not understand and have not questioned, my singing voice can form the syllables of the Gàidhlig smoothly, almost perfectly, while my speaking voice can only make halting attempts at them.

The look of pride on Ned's face is a lovely thing to see.

The look of surprise on Murtagh's is even more so.

But I am living for the look of shocked horror on Dougal's face.

It's the look of a man who had just realized his worst fear – that his most dedicated enemy has broken his ultimate secret code.

I haven't, of course. But he thinks I have.

And that's enough for my revenge. More than enough.

The looks of embarrassment or shame on most of the rest of the men's faces boosts my ego in a way I didn't think was possible since the last time Jamie kis-

No, Beauchamp. Don't go there now. . .

Sing, Beauchamp. Sing for your supper. . .

"Chì mi na coilltean, chì mi na doireachan,
Chì mi ann màghan bàna is toraiche,
Chì mi na féidh air làr nan coireachan,
Falaicht' an trusgan de cheò."

I see woods there, I see thickets there. I see fair, fertile fields there. I see the deer on the ground of the Corries, shrouded in a garment of mist. . .

It's been so long since I've sung anything – since I've felt like singing anything. A decade at least, or more. But I used to be rather good.

Or at least that's what mum used to say. . .

Frank used to love it too. . .

"Beanntaichean àrda is àillidh leacainnean,
Sluagh ann an còmhnuidh is còire cleachdainnean,
'S aotrom mo cheum a' leum g'am faicinn,
Is fanaidh mi tacan le deòin."

High mountains with lovely slopes, folk there who are always kind. Light is my step when I go bounding to see them, and I will willingly remain there for a long while.

Strange a Gàidhlig song should make me long so much for New Oxford, but there it is.

I stopped questioning my heart the day I first dreamed of Jamie. . .

I finish the last chorus, and there is a long pause. After a breath there is quite a bit more than polite applause. It isn't wild applause – nothing overwhelming – but it is very, extremely pleasant. I am also encouraged to see Ned, Murtagh, Angus, Rupert, and Alain all give me nods of approval.

I am delighted to see Dougal's scowl.

I very deliberately do not look for Jamie. . .

The lead musician leans in to me, as he swaps out his guitar for a handheld drum.

"Hùg Air A' Bhonaid Mhòir?" he asks, nodding significantly at me.

I smile and nod back. I know that one too, even though it's much more difficult. It's basically a nonsense song, made to sound good and be easy to dance to, rather than have much meaning in itself.

The music starts, and people start pairing up. . .

I close my eyes and focus on the rhythm, as the crowded little room dances and leaps around me. . .

This time when the song finishes, the applause is even more enthusiastic. Dougal has been pushed off to the side a ways by the dancers, but he is still hovering by the stage, still intending on participating tonight.

I've been lifted just enough out of my depression that I can feel a little bit of disgust at him, and even a touch of hatred for how he's been making the men treat me.

But I'm still being driven by petty spite. It's all I've really felt for days, and I'm not willing to give up wallowing just yet.

I have to give a performance that it's impossible for him to follow. I only know one song that might do it – the problem is that it's the most difficult one for me to pronounce.

Very slowly and deliberately, I say to the lead musician - "Dh'èirich Mi Moch Madainn Cheòthar."

He's gotten a little used to the quirks in my spoken pronunciation now, and I only have to repeat myself twice before he nods vigorously, and picks up a tin whistle. . .

This one is half a nonsense song – the rollicking little chorus is totally meaningless – but the rest of the lyrics are about a woman abandoned by her young lover, and mistreated by the older man who was supposed to care for her. . .

If everyone in the room doesn't get the point, then at least the most important ones will.

A few people dance to this one too, but mostly, people sing along.

It's the first time that's ever happened to me. True, most folks only chime in on the nonsense chorus, but I still find it one of the most joyful, touching experiences of my life.

One beautiful memory, at least, to take back with me through the stones. . .

When this song finishes, the applause still isn't wild, but it is some of the most sincere, heartfelt applause I've ever participated in – on either side of the stage. I bow as graciously as I know how, and gesture at the musicians around me, applauding them myself.

Murtagh comes up to escort me back to Ned, and I even catch a wink from Angus.

Dougal is nowhere to be seen.

I don't relax my guard, but it does satisfy the little knot of resentment I've been chewing on these past few days.

Squirm, snake. Squirm.

I spend a few minutes with Ned, manage to finish my cold leftovers and avoid being bought more than two drinks, before making my way back up to my room.

A much different night than I was expecting, but also more successful. . .

I turn off the stairs onto the landing, and a hand comes out of the shadows. A tall silhouette collides with me, slamming me into the opposite wall. A forehead presses to mine, and Jamie's voice comes out of the darkness -

"Why? Why did ye no' tell me ye could sing?"