Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LEXI
The little boy who’s been staring at me for about ten minutes wanders across the grass in my direction.
He’s probably about six or seven and is freaking adorable in his too-big red jacket and Spider-Man rain boots.
“Are ye famous?” His Scottish accent ratchets up his cuteness even higher.
“I am not famous, no.” I make a sad face, despite the fact that famous is the last thing I’d ever want to be.
“Ah!” His eyebrows practically launch off his forehead. “Ye is American.”
Man, are even sweet little kids appalled by us?
“I am,” I say.
“Then ye must be famous.” His voice is now loud enough for everyone in about a ten-foot radius to hear. Some of them turn to look.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Cos everyone famous is American,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s very sure of their logic. “And ye ’ave him.” He points behind me to Dane.
Oliver insisted I bring one of his security guys with me and, while Dane is somewhat dressed down for the occasion in jeans and a gray wool coat instead of his usual black suit and tie combo, he still sticks out like the most swollen of sore thumbs amid the locals.
Oliver initially offered to ignore Giles’s instruction to stay away from the event and come with me, but then decided it would create way too much of a fuss and detract from the event itself. And that didn’t seem fair to the organizers or participants.
God, how awful to effectively be a prisoner in your own home. Even if that home is a castle.
“Sorry.” A woman appears by the kid’s side and frowns at me before turning to the boy and lowering her voice. “Leave the lass alone. She’s tha one I was talkin’ about earlier.” She takes his hand and resumes normal speaking volume. “Let’s go see if anyone’s found yer gnome yet.”
“I putta gnome in the bog,” he shouts at me over his shoulder as he’s led away by the woman, who doesn’t look back. Guess she didn’t have anything good to say when she was talking about me earlier.
When I arrived at the annual bog treasure hunt about half an hour ago, I was given the task of Keeper of the Register. The Register being the official list of all the items that have been placed in the bog along with the points associated with each one.
It’s a job not to be taken lightly—according to the mightily pissed-off guy who was stripped of the responsibility to make way for “Prince Oliver’s lass.”
It appears, in fact, that no aspect of the event is taken lightly. The rules seem to be as revered as if it were an Olympic sport.
Each contestant gets five minutes in the bog, and when their time is up, they bring their haul to me. I cross the items they’ve found off the list, add up their points value, and pass the total to the chief adjudicator, Moira, who’s sitting next to me at the judging table.
One of the main things I’ve learned today is that a staggering number of people are prepared to don swimsuits, goggles, and snorkels on a chilly late September day, then wade into a muddy bog creek to search for a bizarre collection of unwanted household items.
Some of the “treasure” is pretty funny. On the list, and still to be found, are “teacup glued to saucer,” and “Grandma’s false teeth”—I’m hoping she has a new set and that she’s not, you know, in a place where she no longer requires any.
“Violation!” Moira leaps to her feet beside me, making me jump.
I jump even more when she blows long and hard into her whistle, even though she’s already done it half a dozen times since we started.
“Straying out of your area!” she declares.
She sits back down and flips through the papers on her clipboard. “He cannae ever remember the rules. The bampot does that every year.” She finds the guy’s name on the list and marks a red X next to it. “Either that or he’s a born cheater.”
“Well, he’s a man, right?” I joke.
But Moira looks at me with a furrowed brow. “You’re not worried about Prince Oliver doin’ the dirty on ye, are ye?”
“Oh God, no.” The last thing I want is to tarnish his reputation even more. I’m supposed to be writing this book to help him, not make things worse in the process.
“I couldn’t be happier he’s finally found himself a nice lass.” She taps my arm. “He’s a lovely lad who deserves happiness.”
And here’s an opening for me to get the local background I came for. “Do you know him?”
“Och, no. Never met him. But I’ve seen him in the village over the years. There was a time when he was always oot and aboot wi’ his mates, getting up to mischief.”
That sounds interesting. “What type of misch—”
“Violation! Excessive goggle wiping.” Moira’s back on her feet, and this time I manage to get my hands over my ears before she blows the whistle. Either this is a special whistle designed to alert every living being within a mile radius, or she has the lungs of an opera soprano.
“Mud on the goggles stays on the goggles,” she adds, clarifying the regulation.
Wow, interesting rule.
“Here ye go.” An older man dumps four items dripping with mud onto the table in front of me, even though competitors are supposed to wash them off in the buckets of water next to us first.
“Violation!” Moira declares. “Failure to rinse.”
Jesus. My ass actually left the chair at this whistle blast.
The man shouts something back at her in an accent so heavy the only words I can make out are “shut” and “mouth.” But his tone would suggest there were at least a couple of profanities that I missed.
“Ye rinse those beggars off, Fergus McDonal,” Moira says. “Or I’ll disqualify yer quicker than ye can say ‘bog.’”
“Och, bog off,” he mutters under his breath, clear as day this time, as he scoops up his finds and moves them over to the buckets.
“They’ll try to get away wi’ murder if ye let ’em,” Moira warns me under her breath.
The official over by the action who’s been timing the treasure hunters’ searches blows his whistle. This is a very whistle-dense event.
“That was the final contestant,” he cries as a woman, fresh from the creek, walks past him toward us.
The bottom half of her legs and arms are covered in mud.
As is her face, apart from two clean patches around her eyes where her goggles were.
She clearly took the bend-over approach to searching, because her bright pink swimsuit is completely clean.
It is quite the sight.
“Judges, tally the points,” the official shouts.
Once Fergus has provided us with his rinsed haul and the lady from the black lagoon has followed suit, I add up their scores. Moira writes them on her list, deducts everyone’s violation points, and calculates the winner.
The MC, who’s been wandering around with a microphone giving a running commentary of the events, comes and stands by our table.
His outfit has been dazzling me all day.
It’s the obligatory tartan kilt, accompanied by shiny black wellies, a black T-shirt with the word BOGMEISTER in gold letters across his chest, a long black cloak that’s tied around his neck and almost reaches the ground and, for reasons I’m too afraid to ask in case it prompts some long historic story I won’t be able to follow, a cowboy hat.
The bogmeister raises the microphone to his lips. “Attention, bog lovers. Judge extraordinaire, Moira Bathhouse, will announce this year’s King or Queen o’ th’ Bog.”
All faces turn in our direction, some people shushing others.
Moira looks down at her clipboard and flips through the pages a couple of times as if double-checking her all-important figures.
The bogmeister holds the microphone in front of her as she scowls and all but rolls her eyes and just about suppresses a groan.
“This year’s King o’ the Bog is…Fergus McDonal,” she announces with zero enthusiasm.
To cheers, applause, and what appears to be a kid playing a set of toy bagpipes, Fergus comes to claim his prizes—a King of the Bog sash and a trophy of a gold crown with splatters of brown plastic mud on it.
“And now,” the caped bogmeister says, “Moira, please tell us how much treasure remains in the bog.”
She gestures for me to give her the list where I’ve been crossing off the items as they’ve been turned in.
After examining it, she leans back into the microphone. “One item. One item remains in the bog.”
An Ooo runs through the crowd.
“Now, in the time-honored tradition passed doon by our ancestors”—methinks the bogmeister is stretching the truth a little there—“when one item remains in the bog, we enter the free-for-all stage o’ the proceedings.”
People are already taking off their shoes and moving toward the edge of the bog.
Seriously? They all race into the mud to search for the last thing?
“And what’s the missing treasure they seek, Moira?” he asks. “What will deliver this year’s bonus prize?”
Moira consults the list again. “A hairy coo knitted by Sheena from The Highland Purl yarn shop.”
“Okay,” Bogmeister says, “Adults, kids, anybody who thinks they can find Sheena’s hairy coo—”
He pauses to scowl at the smutty snickering coming from Fergus, who’s still standing here, sash on, holding his gold crown aloft.
“Anybody who thinks they can find the knitted toy, on ye marks—”
More people kick off shoes, take off coats, and trot to the edge of the bog.
“Get set—”
There are a few whoops and hollers.
“Go!” he declares with a dramatic swoop of his cloak.
I get to my feet to join in the clapping for those wading into the mud and the others hurtling toward it.
Some of the spectators give me a hard glare. Others mutter, nudge each other, and tip their heads toward me. And did a woman over there roll her eyes?
What have I done wrong now?
“Too good for it,” I catch one non-whispering person say.
“American,” another mutters, with a disapproving curl of their mouth.
Is this my first micro-taste of what it must be like for Oliver? To be judged by people who’ve never met you. And to have to try to not give a damn.