20. Chapter 20 #2
“At least Dalrymple lost his power,” I say, hearing how lame it sounds.
Torin gives a hollow laugh. “Not for long. Eight years later, he was named the Earl of Stair. The scumbag.”
“And what happened to the MacDonalds?” I ask.
Torin sighs. “They carried on best they could. Maclain’s son became chief, and they continued to support the Stuart claim to the throne.
Many MacDonalds were still fighting for that cause more than fifty years later.
Some of them were in the Highland regiments that charged across the Culloden Battlefield in 1746. ”
That morning Torin had described Culloden like a historian—dates, troop movements, the boggy ground that ruined the charge. Now the story comes out differently.
“In the immediate aftermath of the battle, the king’s men stripped their prisoners and left them in the cold for two days.
Many were executed, hundreds died in prison, and even more were sent to the West Indies and Americas to be sold into indentured servitude.
When the government troops traveled back to Inverness, they slaughtered anyone they encountered wearing Highland garb.
If you looked like a rebel, that was enough to sign your death warrant.
When they found thirty of the Rising’s officers and soldiers hiding in a barn, they sealed the doors and burned it down. ”
He’s shaking again but not crying. I squeeze his shoulder, encouraging him, understanding that he needs to get this out.
“Government soldiers were sent across the Highlands to hunt down anyone who might have been in league with Prince Charlie. Rampant hangings and rape became the norm. Families were evicted, houses burned. Twenty-thousand head of livestock were stolen and sold to pay the men who perpetrated the atrocities with the king’s support.
“And then came the laws. The Disarming Acts. The Dress Act. Bagpipes, tartan, and kilts were banned. Speaking Gaelic was forbidden. It wasn’t enough for them to murder Highlanders.
They wanted to kill our culture, our entire way of life.
As long as we were different, we were a threat.
They wanted to stamp out what they saw as savagery. ”
The more he tells me, the more I see how it affects him. And the angrier I get. I know much of this already, but hearing it from him is different. The anger in his voice, hands balled into fists, the grief sitting just beneath the words. It gets my hackles up.
“No one should be punished for being who they are.” The words come out rougher than I intend.
My mind flashes to locker-room whispers, slurs tossed across school hallways, the careful editing of myself I learned to do before I was even old enough to fully understand why.
I know Torin has had these experiences, too.
They’re inescapable for people who are viewed as being “other.”
“I learned all this as a lad, and I wanted to do something to counteract the efforts to erase our culture. I asked my parents to take me to Inverness to get my first kilt, and they did. While we were there I found a Gaelic phrase book in a secondhand bookshop and learned to speak it.”
“Really? I’ve never known you to be the defiant sort,” I say, and he grins.
“I don’t usually abide by stereotypes, but I think we can agree that I’m the classic stubborn Scot.”
“I do. I agree. Wholeheartedly.” I chuckle. “And I assume all this kicked your love of history into overdrive?”
“Aye,” he says. “It did that. But it also made me appreciate my country more, how we’ve survived everything that’s been thrown at us and still managed to hold on to who we are.
My parents were supportive. They loved seeing me embrace my heritage.
Santa even brought me a refurbished set of bagpipes that Christmas, and I learned to play them by watching videos online. ”
“Wait.” He glances at me. “You play the bagpipes?”
“Aye,” he says.
“How did I not know about this?”
“It never came up.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’d put on my kilt and head out into the fields and play. It was nice. It still is. It feels like I’m communing with my ancestors, carrying on our traditions through time.”
“That’s beautiful, Torin.”
“Thanks,” he says.
“I should be the one thanking you,” I tell him.
“Och, what for?”
“For bringing me here. For trusting me with your history. For explaining to me in your own way why you want to do this research.”
“Anytime,” he says with a smile.
The setting sun pokes through a hole in the clouds, a pale ribbon of gold stretching across the valley before sinking slowly behind the hills. The wind off the glen cuts through my coat, but Torin’s arm is still looped around my back, his shoulder warm against mine.
After the conversation we just had, things should feel heavy, but my insides are radiating warmth.
The more time I spend with Torin, the easier it becomes to see past the prickly edges he shows the rest of the world and see the incredible man he is inside.
And I can’t stop myself from falling for him any more than I can keep the sun from setting.
Maeve’s voice pops into my head—her relentless campaign to get me to stop overthinking and show Torin how I feel. She’s probably right. But for now I’m just enjoying the moment. And what a moment it is.
I’ve been lucky to have so many beautiful experiences in my life, but few have ever made me feel the way I do right now, basking in the last rays of the day’s light with Torin. The man who earns another piece of my heart, every day.