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Here, indeed, I think. I’m strangely anxious as we follow the well-maintained crushed stone walkway, flanked with cultivated potted plants. And what, exactly, am I hoping to find here? I don’t even know, but I am drawn, as if this, somehow, is my destiny.
The back of my neck tingles with that sensation of being watched. I look fast but there is only a large black bird perching on the top of the wall.
As we pass under a recently painted white awning that shelters passengers from rain, supported by evenly spaced white poles with a single blue stripe, a paper taped to the farthest pole rattles in the breeze. I can’t see what it says from here, but it looks almost as old as the train station.
I take in a breath of Scottish highland air. It is fresh. So fresh it makes my skin tingle and my stomach does flips. The rest of our group pushes past the two of us with some mutters about our impeding the unloading of the train.
“Okay, everyone please pay attention,” Professor Galmatin says in his matter-of-fact lecture tone, gathering us around. “We’re staying at the Muthu Dalmally. Please stay with your travel buddy. We’ll leave for the dig site at eight a.m. local time, so don’t be up late and don’t forget to adjust your watches.”
“Who wears a watch?” Ryan asks, flashing his jovial smile.
“Right, well, you young ones can make sure your phones are adjusted. Us old timers will handle the watches,” Professor Galmatin says, rolling with the joke.
Professor Galmatin is about as far from Indiana Jones as you can get, but we all like him. He’s tall and lanky with more gray than black left to his thinning hair. He has a thin, angular face but sharp, intelligent gray eyes.
“Hey, look at this!” Gail says, having wandered down the length of the train station.
She’s pointing at the rustling paper attached to the pole. Everyone moves to see what she’s looking at, and the moment I see it, my stomach drops. The hairs on the back of my neck and arms tingle with that sense of being watched again.
“Oh,” Savannah says.
“Wow, who would think that could happen here?” Ryan says.
“I don’t know,” Gail says. “Dalmally, Scotland looks like a proper place for a disappearance to me. No one would expect it to happen here, of course, but isn’t that what they always say?”
Her words echo in my head, ringing like the voice of a god speaking from on high. Pronouncing some fundamental truth of the universe. The ragged piece of paper dampens everyone’s excitement. The smiling face of the handsome young man staring off it somehow makes it ever creepier. He’s been missing for two weeks and there is a substantial reward for information leading to his whereabouts.
“Michael MacGregor,” Savannah says, reading the missing teen’s name. “He’d be a senior.”
“Probably ran off to the city,” Ryan says. “Couldn’t take life in the slow lane.”
“Yeah, probably,” Savannah says.
“Okay, gang,” Professor Galmatin says. “Enough of that. Let’s get to our rooms and check in. Then we’ll have dinner, and you can check out the local bars before bed.”
“Bars,” Ryan scoffs. “We’re in Scotland. I want a pub!”
We all laugh, but as we gather our luggage and travel to our hotel, I can’t forget Michael’s smiling face, staring off that tattered poster. It’s a dark cloud lurking behind the laughter of my group and battling with the awe of finally being in Scotland.
Checking in is painless, if a bit disappointing by how high-tech the hotel is. If I was traveling on my own, I’d find the smallest, most modest bed and breakfasts possible and only stay in them. This hotel is too touristy. It’s pretty on the surface, but the slightest of inspections, and it’s clear that it’s a façade laid over what was once historical but not restored.
They ruined this place.
The Muthu was a 19th century hotel that was bought by overseas investors and renovated to be more modern. Now, years after the remodel, the overlay is wearing thin. The cultivated plants and flowers have a layer of dust on their leaves and cobwebs hiding in their dark recesses. The lobby furniture has scuffs and signs of wear, and the carpets need attention.
Savannah and I are sharing a room, which is much the same as everything else: overly touristy and worn. She plops down on one of the twin beds and sighs.
“Well, we’re not here for the room, right?” She laughs, patting the bed.
“True,” I say. “But it could be nicer.”
“Of course, but we’re in Scotland, and tomorrow we go to our first, real-life dig site,” she says.
I put my suitcase into the small closet then take a seat on the twin bed opposite her. The mattress is serviceable, if not amazing. She’s right, though. I didn’t come here for the room. I came for that voice inside. The calling that, in quiet moments, takes me away to sweeping vistas, highland mountains, heather, and the mewing of Scottish long-hair cattle. All my life I’ve been pulled towards Scotland, but never thought I’d make it here.
I walk over to the small window and stare. On an awning that covers the entrance to the hotel is a large black bird, a raven if I’m not mistaken. It’s staring at my window with a black, beady eye.
“Savannah?”
