Red Sorcha
"And – action!"
A roll of drums, and a steady clop-clopping of horses' hooves sound behind me.
I duck into the Invermorsiton Emporium, intent on avoiding the camera crew. I slip behind some racks of clothing, and peer out at the high street, as Donas bears Dougal at the head of a long procession down to the riverbank.
This is the third time they've made this run.
He does have a speech later today, but it seems more b-roll is necessary. . .
We only have our government-assigned camera crew for a few more days, and they're somewhat desperately trying to get enough footage of Dougal for the fully edited bio-segment each candidate must submit at the end of their official broadcast time.
The problem, of course, is that Dougal is terrific at getting attention, but absolutely pants at inspiring real interest. He can give a speech as well as any professor, and he can lead a parade better than Mickey Mouse – he can even make grand toasts at the pub, sing, play darts, and put away beer or whisky with the best of them. But he interviews like a steel crate. Literal sawdust has a more engaging, natural presence in a formalized one-on-one setting – as the crew discovered last week, when they attempted a recorded interview, but had to call it when the homemade scarecrows decorating the stage kept stealing the scene. Even Angus had interviewed better – at least he could tell a mildly indecent joke without sounding painfully scripted.
At this point, the crew is almost out of options – I've surreptitiously been listening around the corner from the editing room, so I know they've crammed in about as many side interviews, fluff narration, digressions and b-roll shots as they can, and they still have almost five minutes to fill. All but about thirty seconds of Dougal's interview was "almost devoid of human interest", I heard the scene director say.
If I can find the right angle, that's probably going to be my best bet. . .
I'm done with complicated chess games, and the subtle intrigues of familial drama.
I'm finished with confusing, non-explanations about time travel, and if I can or should try to change the future. Or the past. Or whatever. The future is probably screwed no matter what I try, so why should I care?
I've had enough of magic. Time for me to get back to plain, practical nihilism.
If the universe has failed me, then I'm going to fail it right back.
I give a little sigh.
Well, at least I've finally come down to petty, satisfying revenge. At last – a goal I have some chance of reaching. . .
I watch Donas and company finally round the corner.
They want human interest? I'll show them human interest. . .
I only have a couple more weeks of Dougal to endure, and until I get back to Craigh na Dun, I am going to make his life as unpleasant and uncomfortable as possible.
Just to see how he likes it.
And if the best way to do that includes stealing his thunder, then that's what I'll do. . .
I look around the Invermorsiton Emporium, at the impressive array of tartan clothing, printed t-shirts, collectible teapots, mugs, and whisky and shot glasses, and the whole wall full of merchandise with the town name and crest blazoned over it all.
I haven't always learned the names of the places we've stayed on this campaign, most of them are so small, and we've stayed there so briefly. But we've been here four days, and Invermoriston is quite large by comparison to most – it has three sizable hotels, rather than the usual small B & B that can barely accommodate our party of thirty or more – several officially labeled "Scenic Places Of Interest", that I am sure will be quite profitable when or if Scotland ever becomes a tourist destination again – a dock and staging area for Loch tours, and even a dedicated Loch Ness Monster museum. I've noticed these latter are quite common to the area, but the one here is better curated than usual, and focuses more on the Monster Watcher phenomenon than on Nessie herself. I've been there twice since we got here, and wasn't bored either time, though I think the amusement is played out for me now.
I browse through a rack of tartan scarves, reading the large nearby plaque about which Clans' patterns they are, and some of the history of each.
I find MacKenzie, and Fraser, Campbell and MacTavish, and several more names I recognize, just out of curiosity.
And then I see Clan Moriston. . .
Not so strange, perhaps, to find it here, all things considered, but it suddenly strikes me that the bright red of it, striped with sea-green and white, would be such a beacon against the blue-grey of a MacKenzie background.
It's perfect, really. And the irony is simply delicious. Here, of all places, now of all times, and me, of all people. . .
"Are ye bein' served, miss?" an attendant comes up and asks politely.
"Not yet," I look at the girl inquiringly, gesturing at the Moriston scarf, "Do you have this in a dress? Preferably a princess cut?"
"I dinnae ken. Le' me check for ye right quick. . ."
After a few moments at the register, she gestures me over to a nearby fitting booth. The machine scans me, and gives a few preview images of what I'd look like wearing the patterns available. I make a few adjustment requests, then tap the result I want the machine to make for me.
The attendant smiles at me as I step out of the booth, "Th' alteration won' tak too long, miss. Wha' name shall I call when it s'ready?"
I reach onto my pocket, and pull out the last of the coins I earned at Leoch. Dark, sneering irony stares at me out of my own heart.
What the hell, if I'm going to do this, I might as well own it.
"Sorcha."
She taps the name into her e-padd, completely unaware of the drama she's participating in.
A half an hour later I'm back at the hotel. An hour after that, I'm in the attached restaurant, dressed triumphantly for tea.
Dougal's group files in, slowly, each one of them looking more tired than one speech and a few hours of pick-up shots should rightly account for.
Evidently, it has not been a good day for the camera crew. . .
The director and lead interviewer come in together, and I wave them over to my table. It takes them a split second to recognize me, but when they do take in my new dress, they come over quite eagerly. The interviewer pulls out a chair for the director, so she can sit across from me, then takes a seat himself.
"I see yer day's been bettar than ours – oor brighter, a'least, miss. . ."
I smile, and Warrior Claire draws her sword.
"Moriston. Sorcha Moriston."
She gives me a brief double-take, "I. . . I thought ye were English. I didnae ken ye. . ." she trails off, gesturing at the dress.
"No one chooses their ancestry – and no one earns their blood. It's mere chance I'm here with Clan MacKenzie for a while. And it isn't a permanent position at all."
"Ye'er th' lead mechanic, aren't ye?"
"Yes."
"Ye must have some fascinatin' stories about all the things s'been happenin' in Scotland ov late."
I lean forward, smiling amiably, "Oh, you have no idea. . ."
The next morning, there is not only a long article posted on the campaign's network site, there is a huge front-page spread on Invermoriston's hardcopy-print paper, where the headline reads -
Red Sorcha!
A Sassenach's View Of The Journey Towards Scottish Independence
The speech Dougal gave yesterday is on page four.
I smile over my morning tea.
The next two weeks aren't going to be easy - but satisfying? That, yes.
Very, very satisfying. . .