Chapter 24
Cameron
The Highlands Version of Up Helly Aa... Low Budget Edition
I’m stacking firewood like my life depends on it.
Which is ironic, because right now my life depends on not thinking about what happened two days ago by the loch.
Clementine could say yes.
Not to a specific question, because I haven’t actually asked a specific question.
But to the general idea of us building something together.
Which is, from a contractual standpoint, the worst negotiation framework in the history of human relationships.
We could build something.
What something?
On what timeline?
With what exit clauses?
Are the sheep included in the package?
Stop treating your love life like a client brief, Cameron.
“You okay?” Ewan asks, dropping a log roughly the size of a five-year-old child onto the pile I’m supposedly organizing.
“Perfectly fine,” I reply with the enthusiasm of a man who has just realized he agreed to participate in a pagan ritual on a Tuesday night.
Connor appears from the left carrying what looks suspiciously like a medieval torch he probably built himself using whatever he found lying around in his garage.
“Old Angus wants the fire visible from the village,” he announces. “Says it’s important for the authenticity of the tradition.”
The authenticity of the tradition.
We’re currently preparing a low-budget version of Shetland’s Up Helly Aa—a Viking festival that normally lasts several days, involves hundreds of costumed participants, and culminates in the burning of a full-sized replica longship.
The Glenfield version lasts two hours, involves the entire village wearing waterproof jackets, and burns a wooden structure nobody can quite agree on how to describe.
Old Angus calls it honoring the ancestors.
The rest of the village calls it an excuse to break out the bottles on a Tuesday.
“He brought the tradition back from a trip to Shetland forty years ago,” Ewan explains for the third time in ten minutes, as though I somehow forgot the story between two logs. “The real Up Helly Aa is something else. Vikings everywhere. Fire. Beer. Everything you could want.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got Hamish, who’ll probably show up at some point,” I point out.
“Hamish always shows up,” Connor confirms with the resignation of a man who long ago stopped questioning the natural laws governing Glenfield.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Clementine.
Cameron
There’s a bonfire tonight on the hill behind the village. It’s called Up Helly Aa. Old Angus claims it’s a Viking-Scottish tradition. Don’t fact-check him.
Her reply arrives almost immediately.
Clementine
Already on Google.
Three minutes later:
Clementine
Okay. I’m coming.
I grin at my screen like an idiot.
Ewan watches me as though I’ve just confirmed every suspicion he’s ever had.
“So,” he says in the casually invasive tone he uses when extracting information from clients, “what’s the situation?”
As if my love life were a case file that could be summarized in three bullet points and a performance chart.
“What situation?” I ask with the carefully cultivated innocence of someone who knows exactly what situation.
“The Clementine situation,” Connor says, never burdened by subtlety. “You know. The woman Grandma says you’re hopelessly in love with.”
“Maggie says a lot of things.”
“Yeah,” Ewan replies. “And Maggie is always right. That’s one of Glenfield’s immutable laws.”
I lift another log, mostly to avoid answering.
The problem with Ewan and Connor is that they know me well enough to interpret my silence.
And right now, my silence says something along the lines of:
Yes, you’re both right, but I’m not acknowledging it because that would make it real, and if it’s real, then I’ll have to deal with feelings.
“Is she coming tonight?” Connor asks.
“Yes.”
“And what are you two going to do? Hold hands around the fire like you’re starring in a craft-whiskey commercial?”
“No. We’ll probably just... participate in the festivities?”
Ewan and Connor exchange a look that contains years of friendship and a disturbingly accurate understanding of my emotional defense mechanisms.
“Good,” Ewan says. “Keep doing that.”
Coming from him, that’s the equivalent of a fifteen-minute motivational speech.
Night settles over Glenfield.
The sky still carries that distinctive shade of a Scottish winter twilight—a blend of gray, deep blue, and the looming threat of questionable weather.
The entire village climbs the hill like a medieval procession.
Except instead of pilgrims in robes, we have Moira MacTavish carrying a blanket and a bottle of craft whiskey that was almost certainly distilled in somebody’s garage, Mrs. MacLeish deep in conversation with Baker McKenzie about the comparative merits of different flour varieties—a debate that has apparently been ongoing since 1987—and Finn and Mary walking side by side, which is still new enough to attract attention.
Old Angus is already at the top of the hill, overseeing the final preparations with the authority of a Viking general despite being eighty-two years old and wearing a quilted Barbour jacket that has clearly survived more battles than any longship.
And then there’s Clementine.
She arrives with Ailsa.
The two women make their way up the trail.
She’s wearing that yellow jacket I’ve somehow grown strangely fond of.
She spots me too.
Her gaze crosses the crowd, finds mine, and she smiles.
Not the polite smile she gives the villagers.
Something softer.
Simpler.
A smile that says only:
I’m happy to see you.
Ailsa whispers something in her ear.
Clementine laughs and nudges her.
They continue toward the top of the hill, and I realize I’m smiling back like a complete fool.
“You’re drooling,” Connor mutters as he walks past carrying a crate of beer.
“I am not.”
“Metaphorically, you’re drooling.”
He disappears before I can come up with an appropriate response, which is probably better for both of us.
“Can you help me?” Ewan asks, carrying two stacked crates.
I grab the top one and reluctantly follow him, which unfortunately prevents me from going to find Clementine.
Ewan drops his load beneath a tent that has been transformed into a temporary bar.
I set down my crate and look back toward the crowd.
Old Angus is motioning for everyone to gather.
In the shifting mass of people, I lose sight of Clementine.
The bonfire structure is large.
No, large doesn’t do it justice.
It’s enormous.
A pyramid made of wood, branches, and what look suspiciously like garden furniture sacrificed for the cause.
It’s big enough that I can’t see anyone standing on the opposite side.
I assume Clementine is over there somewhere.
Old Angus stands before it holding a torch he lit with the solemnity of a man carrying the sacred flame of an ancient civilization rather than a stick soaked in kerosene.
“We are gathered here,” he declares in a voice that carries across the hill, “to honor our ancestors. The Vikings. The Scots. Everyone who got cold and decided the solution was to burn something very large so their neighbors would know about it.”
Applause erupts.
Old Angus lowers the torch to the base of the pyramid.
The flames leap upward instantly with the joyful violence of dry wood that has been waiting all year for an excuse to catch fire.
Heat rolls outward.
The villagers collectively take a step back before reforming into an approximate circle around the blaze.
That’s when Clementine appears beside me.
She looks at the fire.
I look at her.
We’re standing maybe a foot apart.
Close enough that I can still smell her perfume beneath the smoke.
“It’s impressive,” she says.
“Old Angus never does anything halfway.”
“Did he really bring this back from Shetland?”
“Yeah. Well, let’s say it inspired his own version. The real Up Helly Aa lasts several days and involves Vikings in costume burning a ship. We burn... this.”
I gesture toward the blazing structure.
“And what exactly is it?”
“Honestly? Nobody knows. Old Angus calls it the structure. The rest of the village calls it the annual pile of wood.”
She laughs.
It’s a sound I’m becoming increasingly addicted to, which is dangerous for my mental health.
A whiskey bottle makes its way through the crowd.
Someone hands it to Clementine.
She takes a sip, winces slightly, and passes it to me.
I drink too.
It’s one of Moira’s homemade whiskeys, which means it was probably produced under conditions violating several distillation laws, but it does an excellent job of combating the cold.
“So,” Clementine says, looking around, “this is life in Glenfield? Burning things together on a Tuesday night while drinking ninety-proof alcohol?”
“It’s an important part of our cultural identity, yes.”
“And how many times a year does this happen?”
“This specific tradition? Once. But there’s also the Midsummer bonfire, the Hogmanay bonfire, and Fergus’s summer barbecue, which inevitably becomes an uncontrolled fire.”
“You people seem to have a pyromania problem.”
“Or a very healthy relationship with fire. Depends on your perspective.”
She gives me that look she gets when she’s trying to decide whether I’m serious or simply making things up again.
“You invent half the things you tell me, don’t you?”
“Only half? I’m losing my touch.”
She shakes her head, smiling.
The fire casts dancing shadows across her face, and I catch myself thinking that this is exactly the sort of detail I’d use in a property description to create atmosphere.
Imagine evenings around the fire, flickering light, intimate ambiance...
Except I’m not selling anything.
I’m just...
Here.
Old Angus passes us carrying his personal bottle and repeats his annual line with the gravity of a Greek oracle.
“Bonfires have existed ever since people got cold and wanted their neighbors to know about it.”
Then he disappears into the crowd before anyone can respond.
Which is probably intentional.
Clementine looks at me.
“Is that profound or ridiculous?”
“Both. Isn’t that the hallmark of the best traditions?”
“Mm. No, I don’t think so.”
We look at each other and laugh at the same time.
The entire village is here tonight.
Maggie is sitting on a blanket with Charlie asleep in her arms.
For once, she doesn’t appear to be scheming.
She’s simply watching her grandchildren with the expression of someone who believes events are unfolding exactly as they should.
Which is objectively terrifying.
The only times Maggie isn’t plotting are when she’s already achieved her objective.
Ewan appears with beers and hands one to each of us.
He glances between Clementine and me before walking away with a satisfied smile.
Connor performs a similar inspection three minutes later.
Ailsa does the same, accompanied by a wink directed at Clementine that I pretend not to notice.
It’s as though the entire village came to verify that we were here together and left reassured.
“We’re being watched,” Clementine murmurs.
“Welcome to Glenfield. Observation is our national sport.”
“More than curling?”
“Curling is for tourists. Observation is for locals.”
She laughs again.
I wonder when I’ll stop being captivated by her presence.
“So,” she says after a while, “the real Up Helly Aa in Shetland. What’s it like?”
“I’ve never been.”
“But you could tell me what it’s like according to Old Angus. I’m sure he talks about it constantly.”
“I could. But it’s a long story.”
“So?”
“So... I think tonight I just want to be with you. Without telling a story.”
She looks at me, surprised.
A fair reaction.
Cameron McGregor choosing not to build a narrative is like Hamish failing to appear at a village event.
Technically possible.
Deeply suspicious.
“Okay,” she says slowly.
My hand finds hers.
Our fingers intertwine naturally.
The warmth of the fire reaches us.
Music drifts through the night.
“I never thought I’d spend an evening like this with someone who appreciates how absurd all of it is,” I say eventually.
“The fact that this is a Viking tradition being celebrated in Scotland in the twenty-first century. The fact that we’re burning a pile of wood that was built specifically to be burned.
The fact that hundreds of people gather in the cold to honor... what, exactly? Nobody really knows.”
“Someone like me.”
“Yeah.”
I tighten my hold on her hand.
“Someone like you.”
“I think I understand why you do it,” she says, changing the subject. “Burning something together. It marks the end of something.”
“Or the beginning.”
The fire crackles.
The villagers continue celebrating.
And somewhere inside my head, the professional voice that turns everything into a story finally falls silent.
“I’m glad you’re here tonight, Clementine.”
“Me too,” she says simply.
Movement to my left catches my attention.
Hamish.
Of course.
He’s sitting a few yards away as though he has always been part of the evening.
Nobody seems surprised.
It’s Hamish.
He’s everywhere.
It’s practically written into his job description as the McGregor family mascot.
“He came,” Clementine says, noticing him too.
“He considers village events his own personal events.”
“So this tradition belongs as much to him as it does to Old Angus?”
“Probably more. Old Angus started it forty years ago. Hamish’s family has been here since before Fraser Manor.”
She laughs softly.
“You talk about him like he has a documented genealogy.”
“He probably does. It’s probably carved somewhere into the castle stonework.”
Hamish looks at us.
Or rather, he looks vaguely in our direction with that deeply satisfied sheep expression he’s perfected.
Then, with the dignity of a guest who feels he has stayed long enough to make an appearance, he rises, turns his back on us, and calmly heads back toward the village.
“He’s leaving,” Clementine says.
“He’s seen what he wanted to see.”
“And what was that?”
I smile.
“I don’t know. But I think he’s satisfied.”
The structure burns.
The village applauds.
Old Angus says something in Gaelic that nobody translates but everyone approves of with solemn nods.
The bottles make one final circuit.
Eventually people begin drifting back down toward Glenfield in small groups amid conversation and the lingering scent of smoke.
Clementine and I walk down with the rest of the village.
Ewan passes us and gives me a nod containing approximately fifteen different subtitles, all of which I choose to ignore.
Connor follows carrying the empty beer crate.
“That was nice,” Clementine says.
I squeeze her hand.
“Yeah.”
“We’re doing it again next year?”
Next year.
As if it were obvious she’d still be here.
As if it were obvious we’d still be... us.
“Yes,” I say.
“We’re doing it again next year.”
She smiles.
And as we continue down the hillside into the Scottish night, for the first time since this story began—since the first day I saw her standing in front of the manor looking like someone who had just inherited a major problem—I begin to believe in our future.