Chapter Twenty-Five
Joey
Alyssa kisses her husband's cheek. "I'll explain rock concerts to you later, when we're alone in our chambers at home. Sex is the best teaching tool for you, honey. But we shouldn't talk about that during the clan gathering, hmm?"
Kieran smirks. "Aye, 'tis good advice. And I greatly enjoy your sort of instruction."
As we crest the final hill, the full scope of the gathering comes into view. A sea of tents and pavilions stretches across the valley, each flying the colors and crests of their respective clans. I survey the area as we draw closer, noting the diverse array of tents on display---marquees of varying sizes, simple wall tents, wedge-shaped ones, and so much more.
In the center of the gathering, a massive bonfire roars. Long tables laden with food and drink encircle the area. The air is filled with the scent of roasting meat, wood smoke, and hundreds of bodies packed together. The cacophony of bagpipes, drums, and raucous laughter grows louder by the minute.
"Holy crap," I say under my breath, suddenly feeling small and out of place, like I had all those years ago during my foster-child days. "What I'm seeing seems like Braveheart meets Coachella."
Rachel shoots me a quizzical look. "Coachella? Is that some sort of American clan gathering?"
"Kinda like that," I reply, not wanting to get into the complexities of explaining modern music festivals to a medieval witch. Kieran was baffled, so Rachel probably will be too. So, I tell Rachel, "Let's just say it's a lot to take in."
As we make our way down the hill, I swear I can feel eyes turning in our direction. The chatter dims slightly, replaced by hushed whispers and pointed fingers. I try to stand a little taller, channeling some of Kieran's intimidating presence. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm a walking anachronism, a neon sign flashing "NOT FROM THIS TIMELINE" in bold letters.
Rachel squeezes my hand reassuringly. "Don't worry. Stay close to me and follow my lead. Remember, you are a MacTaggart now, in spirit if not in name. Hold your head high."
"Thanks, baby. That's good advice."
As we approach the outskirts of the gathering, a group of burly men in kilts steps forward to greet us. Their leader, a giant of a man with a fiery red beard, breaks into a wide grin.
"Kieran MacTaggart!" he booms, his voice carrying across the field. "Ye've finally decided to grace us with yer presence, ye great buamastair !"
"Ye dare call me a dolt?" Kieran's stern facade cracks, and he embraces the man with a hearty laugh. "Angus Campbell, ye overgrown ginger root! I see ye've managed to drag yerself away from the ale tent long enough to greet us properly."
I whisper into Rachel's ear, "What's a boo-muh-stead?"
"A dolt," she explains, speaking in a hushed tone. "In this case, 'tis a friendly insult."
Guy talk, medieval style? Hmm, I might fit in around here after all.
The two Scots clap each other on the back with enough force to make me wince. As they pull apart, Angus's attention falls on me, and his bushy eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
"And who might this wee laddie be?" he asks, his gaze flickering between Kieran and me.
I open my mouth to introduce myself, but Rachel beats me to it. "This is Joey, a friend of the MacTaggart clan. He's come a long way to join us for the gathering."
Angus nails his gaze to me, squinting slightly. "A long way, ye say? From where precisely?"
A bead of sweat trickles down my spine as Angus scrutinizes me. Rachel clamps her hand around mine, almost painfully so.
"From across the sea," I blurt out, remembering our hastily concocted cover story. "I'm a trader. From Europe."
Angus's bushy eyebrows knit together. "Europe, ye say? Ye don't sound like any trader I've ever met."
"Well, I've been traveling for quite some time. Picked up all sorts of accents along the way."
Kieran steps forward, his imposing presence drawing Angus's attention away from me. "Aye, and Joey's acquired some valuable skills as well. He has a keen eye for strategy and a quick mind. He'll be a fine addition to our clan during the games."
Angus strokes his beard, watching me intently. "Well then, we'll be sure to put those skills to the test. Welcome to the gathering, Joey from across the sea. I hope ye're ready for some Highland hospitality."
"Looking forward to it."
Kieran inserts himself between me and the big guy. "It's been good to see you, Angus. But we wish to meet with Clan Grant right now. I'm sure you understand."
Without another word, we march deeper into the gathering, and the crowd parts before us like the Red Sea. I can feel the weight of hundreds of curious stares boring into me. Snippets of whispered conversations reach my ears.
"Who's the stranger?"
"Never seen him before..."
"Doesn't look like he belongs..."
"What an unusual accent he has..."
I do my best to ignore them, focusing instead on the sights and sounds around me. This gathering is so large that I bet I could hike for miles without seeing the same people twice. Kieran informs me that Clan Grant is quite a bit smaller than many of the other families, and that's why the MacTaggarts have become trading partners and even allies with the Grants.
But before we meet up with that clan, first we will spend time with another branch of the MacTaggarts---the ones who had banished Kieran a long time ago. I guess the Big Daddy wants to mend fences.
When I tell Kieran that, he chuckles. "Ahmno needing to mend anything. My banishment was lifted long ago. When Rachel was born, the chieftain of all the MacTaggarts visited us at Dùndubhan to inform us that we may attend clan gatherings if we wish. We haven't done so, however---not until now."
"Why did you wait so long?"
"Because my aunts were not invited. Their witchcraft unsettles some." He scratches the back of his neck. "But that edict is unfair. I do witchcraft as well. If my whole family cannae attend, then none of us will."
"But you are attending this clan gathering."
"Aye, 'twas time to do so and show our clan, and others, that we mean them no harm."
As we approach the MacTaggart section of the gathering, the tension in the air becomes almost palpable, like an electric charge crackling around us. Kieran's jaw is firmly clenched, a clear sign of his resolve, while he sweeps his gaze over the crowd with a blend of cautious vigilance and steely determination. The atmosphere feels laden with unease. Rachel threads her fingers between mine in a silent promise of support.
"Remember," she whispers, "you're with us. You belong here."
"Yeah, I know." Despite my best efforts to believe my own words, I can't quite do it.
The MacTaggart encampment is a sea of blue and green tartan with slender threads of orange too, and a proud stag emblazoned on their banners. As we draw closer, conversations die down, and all eyes turn to us. I can see the recognition dawning on their faces as Kieran scans the crowd.
An older man with a salt-and-pepper beard steps forward, his gaze narrowing as he regards our small group. "Kieran Aulay MacTaggart, we didnae expect to see ye here."
Kieran draws himself up to his full height, towering over the older man. "Uncle Hamish, it's been many years."
Hamish's attention flickers between Kieran, Rachel, and me. "Aye, it has indeed been a long time. And who might this lad and lass be?"
"This is my daughter, Rachel," Kieran says, placing a hand on her shoulder. "And this is Joey, a friend of our family from across the sea."
I try to smile, but it feels more like a grimace. Hamish's piercing gaze makes me want to shrink into my boots. His focus lingers on me for a moment longer before he swerves his attention back to Kieran. "A friend from across the sea, ye say? Would that be France? Or mayhap fairy land?"
The skepticism in his voice is clear, and I can feel the tension ratcheting up another notch. Kieran's jaw clenches, but before he can respond, Rachel steps forward.
"Uncle Hamish," she says, her voice warm but firm. "We've come in peace and friendship. Is that not what these gatherings are for? To strengthen bonds between clans and families?"
Hamish's expression relaxes as he looks at Rachel. "Ye have yer father's stubbornness, I'd wager. It's a family trait." He gestures toward the center of the MacTaggart camp. "Come then. Ye might as well join us for a drink."
I follow Kieran, Rachel, and Hamish into the heart of the MacTaggart camp, trying not to gawk at the sea of men and woman who surround us. The scent of peat smoke and roasting meat wafts around us, making my stomach growl audibly. Rachel gives me an amused glance.
As we approach a large central tent, a hush falls over the gathered MacTaggarts. Whispers ripple through the crowd, aimed at Kieran, but also me. I've never liked being the center of attention---that's how a thief operates---but the scrutiny I'm getting from these folks is unnerving.
I do my best to keep my expression neutral, channeling Kieran's stoic demeanor. Inside the tent, a group of older men and women are seated around a long table. They all fall silent as we enter, their eyes widening at the sight of Kieran. The tension in the tent is palpable as we walk inside. I can feel the weight of their stares and a mix of curiosity and suspicion about the mysterious MacTaggarts of Dùndubhan. Kieran stands tall, scanning the faces of his clansmen.
An elderly woman with silver hair and pale blue eyes rises from her seat at the head of the table. Her gaze locks onto Kieran. For a moment, I swear I can see a flicker of something---recognition or possibly affection---cross her weathered features.
"Kieran," she says, her voice strong despite her age. "Ye've finally come home."
He briefly bows his head in deference. "Morag, it's been too long. I was sorry to hear of Roddy's passing."
"My husband lived a long and fruitful life." Her eyes drift to Rachel and me. "And who might these young ones be?"
Rachel steps forward, her chin held high. "I'm Rachel MacTaggart, Kieran's daughter, and this is Joey Finnegan."
I wave awkwardly, feeling completely out of place among these imposing Highlanders. Morag sweeps her gaze over me, and I have the distinct impression she can see right through our flimsy cover story.
"A friend, ye say?" Morag arches an eyebrow. "From whence do ye hail, laddie?"
"From across the sea. I'm a trader who's traveled far and wide."
Morag squints at me. "Is that so? And what brings ye to our gathering? 'Tis for clan members only."
Before I can fumble through a response, Kieran intervenes. "Joey has skills that will be valuable in the games. He's quick-witted and observant, with a knack for strategy, and he's quite strong."
Morag studies me for a moment longer before she nods sharply. "Very well. We shall see how he fares in the trials ahead." She turns her attention back to Kieran. "Ye've been away for many years. There's much to discuss."
"Aye, there is."
Whispers ripple through the gathered MacTaggarts. I catch snippets of hushed conversations, but I can't decipher any of the words because they're all speaking Gaelic.
Morag raises a hand, silencing the crowd. "Ye speak of friendship, Kieran, but ye've brought a stranger into our midst. How can we trust your intentions?"
Kieran's jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice level. "I understand your caution, Morag. But I assure you, Joey poses no threat. He's here to learn our ways and participate in the games, nothing more."
Another MacTaggart pushes through the crowd to glare at Kieran. "Your new mate is no Scot. He must be a Sassenach, but his accent doesnae sound English."
Kieran's nostrils flare, and his eyes narrow to slits. "I vouch for Joey, and that should be enough for my own clansmen."
If this gathering were in modern times, it might turn into a cage match that leaves both men bloodied and bruised. No cages here in Scotland, though. They have fists, swords, and maces instead.
Someone might die today. And it will probably be me.