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In archaeology training, we learn to observe first. Observe, observe, observe, Professor Galmatin said repeatedly. Only after you’ve done that, then observed more, then at last you may begin to create theorems. Theory created before careful observation is fiction. Theory crafted from careful observation is the truth. Or as close as you can get to it, barring further observation and new data.
The men herd the cattle who seem happy to walk along at a leisurely pace. The men call and whoop when one of the herd strays too far from the path they want them on. The earthy odors of cattle, grass, and manure remind me of home. The cities in Missouri aren’t like other cities. Even the biggest, Kansas City or St. Louis, are not far from open farmland. The odors are comforting in some strange way.
The sun sinks lower as we travel. I look for anything that I recognize. A landmark or even a sign of civilization, but nothing. It’s odd because coming up the mountain this morning, there were all kinds of spots that caught my attention as we drove. Places I’d hoped to explore further during my stay here. I don’t understand how I haven’t seen any of them again.
“We’re almost there,” Duncan says, pointing ahead. “See that column of smoke?”
“Yes,” I say.
“That’s home.”
Dusk stretches its long fingers over the land as we crest a ridge, their village is nestled in a dell. The village is a collection of small houses. Each house is made of stacked stone walls with thatch roofs. The houses are built in a rough circle which creates a central area. One of them is almost twice the size of the others, so I assume it must be the chief’s home. A way up the hill sits another small home off by itself.
People—men, women, and children—move about between the homes and gather in the central area, working on different projects. Their conversations and laughter drifts to us. As we draw closer, I take notice that there’s not a hint of technology. No one is on their phone, checking a watch, or even wearing glasses. Everyone is dressed like Duncan and the boys in roughspun.
Something flutters in my stomach. An empty void that feels as if I’m falling. Where am I?
“Ach, cows” A little boy, probably not over four or five years old, points up the path at us and yells.
Several of the villagers stop their work and move to look at our approach.
“Hoy,” Rob shouts.
The villagers talk and return the shouts. Excitement buzzes in the air, electric. It causes a thrill to race down my spine and my own mood to lift despite the confusion, fear, and trauma I’ve suffered since coming out of the fog.
Four men jog up the lane carrying long sticks. They greet the men I’m with and then take over herding the cattle. They veer off to the left where other cows graze. I slow my pace as we enter the village. I stand to one side as Duncan and the others are greeted warmly.
An older man ducks under the low door out of the bigger house. When he stands up, he’s huge. Wide shoulders, long reddish-brown hair streaked with white. He must be well over six feet tall, a giant amongst the other men I’ve seen since coming out of the fog.
His face is like rough worn leather: craggy, crisscrossed with scars, giving him a distressed look that speaks to his age and life. He strides across the open area, covering the ground quickly with his long legs. He has a wide smile that shows his poorly cared for teeth.
“Ach, good job, lads,” he says, throwing his arms wide. He grabs Rob and pulls him into an embrace. “That’s me boy.”
Rob grunts in pain.
“What happened? Did ya have a run in?”
“Colquhouns,” Rob says. “We’ll need to see Alesoun.”
“Right,” the man says, letting Rob go. He looks the group over then his gaze stops on me. “Now, who’s this lass?”
“I’m Quinn,” I say, taking a step forward. Nervousness rattles around inside but I push it down and hold out my hand.
“Johnne MacGregor,” the man says, eyeing my extended hand. He grasps my wrist and shakes. His grip is tight, almost too tight, verging on painful. “How’d ya come to be with the lads?”
“Thomas Colquhoun,” Duncan answers. “He was being inappropriate.”
My cheeks flush hot and I drop my eyes to the ground, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Inappropriate is a very polite way to put it.
“She’ll need to see Alesoun as well.”
“Right, well, welcome to our home,” Johnne says.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling strangely demure watching him look me up and down with an appraising eye in my peripheral.
“You’re dressed odd,” he says. “You’re nae Highlander, and you’re nae Scottish. Where are ya from and how did ya end up here?”
Good question. How do I answer? I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, so I snap it shut. I shake my head and try to come up with a plausible answer. The truth? What is the truth? I don’t know where I am or how I got here.
