Page 6 of Treachery in the Highlands
Swallowing hard, I try to shake off that eerie feeling and give the thumbs-up sign to prove I'm not rattled."Right, magic.Got it."
I take another swig of whisky, hoping it'll calm my nerves.
The burly man leans in closer, his breath hot on my ear."Ye think ye're clever, don't ye?But mark my words, lad.The Highlands have a way of humbling even the most skeptical of souls."
A gust of wind howls outside, rattling the discolored windows.The flames in the fireplace flicker and dance, casting eerie shadows across the room that seem like they might spring to life at any second.I can't shake the feeling that something's changed, like the air itself has become charged with energy I can't explain.
The bartender slides another dram my way."On the house, laddie.Ye might be needin' it."
I contemplate the whisky, wondering if these people plan on giving me a mickey.But then I shrug and knock it back in one gulp.The burn helps to ground me, pushing back the unsettling atmosphere in the pub.I slap a few Scottish notes on the bar, then rush out the door, letting it slam shut behind me.
As I head for my car, I notice a faint shimmer in the air, like heat rising from pavement on a scorching day.But it's chilly this evening, and the shimmer seems to be moving or...swirling around me like an invisible halo.That whisky must have marijuana in it.Do they even have that in Scotland?Doesn't matter.I'm suffering from jet lag and lack of sleep, that's all.
I rub my eyes and yawn as I reach for the car door.The second my fingers touch the handle, a jolt of static electricity zaps me.I yelp and jump back, massaging my hand."What the hell?I need to get outta here before one of those crazy Scots kills me."
The shimmering in the air intensifies, swirling faster around me like a transparent cyclone.My heart thuds as I try to make sense of what's going on.This can't be real.It's just the whisky, the jet lag, the Scottish weed, my overactive imagination...
But then the ground beneath my feet begins to tremble.The world spins, colors blurring together like a kaleidoscope gone haywire.I stumble, trying to grab onto something, anything, to steady myself.But there's nothing solid left to grab onto anymore.
"Help!"I shout.My voice echoes like I'm inside the Grand Canyon, my cries distorted even to my own ears."Somebody help me!"
The last thing I see before everything goes black is the fucking pub.
A cold hand smacks my face."Wakey-wakey,macan.Did ye hit yer head?"
That voice.It's the bartender.
I push up into a sitting position, blinking swiftly."Uh, I'm okay.Must've been jetlag or low blood sugar."
The bartender squints at me, a flicker of something---concern, or maybe suspicion---crossing his weathered features."Aye, must've been."
His tone suggests he doesn't believe me for a second.
I glance around, still disoriented.I'm lying on the cold, damp ground outside the pub, but something's off.The air feels different, heavier somehow, and there's a strange scent I can't quite place.Woodsmoke, maybe?And something else, earthy and ancient.
As I struggle to stand up, the bartender gives me a hand."I'm okay now, I swear.Just need a good night's sleep."
He lifts his brows but then turns to head back into the pub.
Since I hadn't booked a motel, I'll need to drive until I spot someplace.The map on my phone is malfunctioning, so it's no help.Just my luck, right?Or this might be divine my punishment for letting myself get sucked into the Zanetti crime family.I can't even find a freaking gas station.Next, Rod Serling will appear in the passenger seat to tell me I've driven intoThe Twilight Zone.
When I start to veer toward the ditch alongside the road, I realize I must find a motel---now.But I have no idea how to find one in the dark.All I can do is pull over, curl up in the backseat, and try to catch some z's.Amazingly, I do fall asleep.In the morning, I stop at a gas station to clean myself up as best I can in the bathroom.
But as I'm climbing back into the rental car, I notice a piece of paper lying on the floor on the passenger side.When I pick it up, I realize it's an advertisement for that castle---Dùndubhan.As I stare at the flyer, my hands shake slightly.How the hell did that paper get inside my car?Maybe somebody from the bar slipped it in there while I was having a weird conversation with a Scottish bartender.
This is all too weird, and I'm too tired to think about...anything.I should find a motel and get some sleep.But my eyes keep gravitating to the flyer.
Screw it.I need answers, and the castle seems like as good a place as any to start searching.I fire up the rental car and pull out onto the narrow road, following the vague directions on the flyer.As I drive, the landscape grows wilder, more rugged, and yet beautiful too.The paved road gives way to a dirt track, winding its way through misty glens and over craggy hills.
Finally, I round a bend---and there it is.Dùndubhan.
I park in the designated grassy area behind the castle.A cheerful young woman with a Scottish accent tells me to follow the signs that will lead me to the main entrance where I can sign up for a tour or look around on my own.I choose the solo option, unsure of what the hell I'm doing here.After a quick perusal of the ground floor hallway, where I find nothing of interest to a petty thief like me, I head up to the great hall on the first floor.That's boring too, so I climb the stairs up to the third level---which is, apparently, the second floor.Weird.Scots don't know how to name things properly.
At last, I reach the long gallery, where I'm surrounded by artifacts from various periods that line every wall, and the middle of the room too.Every relic rests inside a glass case and has a sign explaining its importance.My thievery has always been centered around jewelry and other trinkets.Here, I discover historical treasures from the medieval world, most of which were found on the castle grounds.Yeah, this stuff is way outside my wheelhouse.But I browse the old junk anyway.
My attention stalls at a glass case that houses a big sword, though I'm not sure why.I study it intently, reading the words engraved on a placard: "The claymore belonging toCiaran Amhlaigh mac in tSagairt(Kieran Aulay MacTaggart), the last laird of Dùndubhan."
As I lean in to examine the sword more closely, a strange sensation shivers through me.The glass case seems to shimmer and distort, like heat waves rising from hot pavement.It's too much like what happened last night, but all I can do is squeeze my eyes shut until the craziness passes.But my head starts to spin, and I stumble backwards, trying to shake off the dizziness.
