Finding Fraser Page 8

  As he walked away, I took the opportunity to slip my computer into my pack. It had become pretty noisy and crowded in the pub and was obviously not the place to do a little quiet planning. I was just sliding out of the corner when I felt a hand on my arm.

  “D’ye trrrust me?”

  An extremely small man stood beside my seat. His eyes didn’t meet mine, but glared straight forward, which meant they were glued to my chest.

  “D’ye trrrust me, lassie?” he repeated.

  “I—I …”

  Craig walked back up, regarding us with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Ah, Emma—I see ye’ve met Rabbie. Rabbie Rowanby, meet Emma the American.”

  The small man’s hand remained in my face, so I leaned backwards and shook it weakly.

  “The name’s Rowanby by birth,” he confided. “But everyone knows me as Rabbie the Gnome.”

  He smiled, favored me at last with a straight look in the eyes and hoisted himself up into the seat by the beer, which was thankfully across the table. Unfortunately, Craig slid back in beside me, effectively blocking any easy exit.

  “Another pink drink for the lady,” cried Rabbie, and then reached across the table to take my hand again.

  Craig leaned over and poked him in the chest and I took his instinctive recoil as an opportunity to pull my hand out of his grasp.

  “Never trust this man,” Craig intoned.

  Rabbie glared at him a moment and then the two of them broke into helpless laughter.

  I leaned back against the seat and took a sip of the drink that had magically appeared in front of me. This cranberry juice had added to it a generous helping of something that tasted distinctly of alcohol.

  I smiled as Craig chuckled his way through an explanation of what a true, old and dear friend Rabbie was. The individual in question was still doubled over, laughing.

  I guess one beer goes a long way in a small man.

  “Rab, Rab—ge’ aholda yerself, man,” spluttered Craig at last. “Now, this young lady is lookin’ to find hersel’ a set of nearby standin’ stones on the side of a hill. Have yeh go’ any ideas?”

  “Ach, yeh can have a look at me own stones, lass,” Rabbie replied, reaching under the table. “Fair fine they are, with one standin’ tall between ’em right now!”

  I tried desperately to unhear that sentence.

  “Rabbie Rowanby, behave yersel’,” scolded Craig. “This young lady has been kind enough to share her table wi’ the likes of us. There’s no need fer that sorta language.”

  The tiny man’s face puckered in an entirely insincere expression of apology. But as much as he turned his mouth down, he could not still the evil twinkle in those eyes. I scootched a little further into the corner.

  “Ah, yer right as allus, Craigy-boy. I see a beautiful woman and I cannae help mesel’.”

  He tapped a blackened fingernail against his chin. “Hmmm. To tell yeh the gospel truth—and I seen me share of faerie rings around the north—there ain’t any circles on hillsides I can recall. Now, doon Fort William way, there’s a couple a beauts, mind …”

  My bladder, by that time filled not only with my own cranberry juice, but also with this newer, strangely tastier concoction, suddenly made itself known to me. And as it did, the light dawned.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered, head down. “Just have to go to the ladies’.”

  Craig had to stand to allow me out. Rabbie jumped out of his own seat and advancing his leg, made a deep bow as I slid out of the booth.

  “Jes’ round the corner, there,” he said, helpfully. And then not so helpfully: “Ye mus’ have a bladder o’ steel, lass! I’d a been t’ the bogs twice wi’ the amount of drink ye’ve got down yer gullet!”

  I dashed to the washroom, the feeling of relief at escaping only mildly tempered by my own maybe less than steel-like capacity. There had to be a back door to this place—I could leave Craig and Rabbie to briefly mourn my passing before hitting on the next single woman they could find.

  It wasn’t until I was washing my hands that I realized I’d left my backpack at the table.

  “Hey, yer hoggin’ the sink, there. You mean tae vomit or summit? Ye look pale as a wee ghostie.” A blonde with half her head shaved and the other half in purple streaks finally sighed impatiently and elbowed me out of the way.

  “No—I’m fine, fine …” I stammered, and jumped to one side. The paper towel bin was empty so I shook my hands off (which earned me yet another dirty look from Scottish Goth Girl), and headed back in.

  The two men were deep in discussion when I arrived back at the table.

  “An’ the craic is,” Rabbie said, his face pushed right across the table into his friend’s, “her feet are bound so tightly they practically form a perfect hole.”

  He had his fingers held up in an ‘OK’ sign, which he quickly dropped when he realized I was standing there.

  “Oh, ye know—all girls are lovely,” he said, quickly. “Chinese, American—what’s the difference, right? I love ’em all.” He smiled into my eyes. “Truly, I do.”

  “I’ve got to get going,” I said, hastily. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Nae, nae—ye cannae leave yet,” cried Rabbie. He slid over, and I could see my backpack sitting there on the bench seat. One quick grab and I could be off. “Look—here’s another drink jes’ waitin’ for ye. One fer the road, aye?”

  I leaned in to put a hand on my backpack and found myself bodily hauled back into my seat. That Wee Rabbie had some decent upper body strength.

  I wilted into my seat and had a sip of the new drink, which, strangely enough, tasted even better than the last.

  Upper body strength and magic potions—what was up with this guy, anyway?

  “So,” he said, placing both his hands cozily over mine. “As a woman, you might know this. Have yeh heard of anything more effective than a vinegar bath for chlamydia? Itches like hell, mind.”

  Just then, a dark-haired girl pushed her way passed our table, drink in one hand and backpack slung over her shoulder. Desperate, I hatched an instant, if slightly alcohol-befuddled plan. “Susan!” I called out to the woman. “Oh my god! I can’t believe it’s you!”

  She kept walking, clearly having not heard me and focused on finding a spot to set her drink. It didn’t matter.

  “Sorry, guys—it’s been … uh—fascinating—talking with you, but I’ve got to go.” I stood up as much as the table would allow and leaned on Rabbie’s chair a little.

  His eyes lit up, and he peered at the back of her head as she walked deeper into the pub. “Ye know her, do ye? Well, invite her to sit with us! We can make room.” He pushed his chair over, effectively blocking Craig from having any space to let me out. My heart sank. I started to babble.

  “Oh, no—it’s fine, really. She’s—she’s my cousin. I haven’t seen her for years. I didn’t know she was even in the country.”

  “No worries—she’s welcome,” he insisted, and then yelled “SUSAN!!!!” across the bar in a voice guaranteed to stop any sexually transmitted disease in its tracks. The entire pub actually fell silent for a moment as everyone turned to look at the source of the bull-sized bellow.

  Everyone except the woman with the backpack.

  “She’s deaf,” I said, and gave a single desperate hip check to my pack. It ricocheted uselessly off one of Rabbie’s stevedore arms, but his beer slid perilously close to the edge of the table and he leaned forward to steady it.

  That was all I needed. I pulled my knees up to my chest, planted my feet on the bench seat and vaulted over his head.

  I cleared him by a full foot, I swear.

  “Very, very deaf,” I repeated, as if nothing had happened. “I’ll just go catch up with her and bring her back to the table, okay?”

  The surrounding pub noise rose up again, once it became clear there was no fight or other interesting occurrence about to break out. Both men beamed amiably and clinked glasses.

  “Ach, that’s brillian
t, Craigy-boy,” Rabbie said cheerfully. “Now there’ll be one for you to take home tonight wi’ ye, too.”

  He stood up in his seat and craned his neck back at her. “Look at that dark hair! She’s not Chinese, is she?” he asked, hopefully.

  I turned my back and fled.

  Clutching my pack to my chest, I pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar. My knee was killing me, having bashed it on the table as I took the leap, but I considered it a war wound, and well worth the outcome.

  The young woman with the backpack had disappeared, but the girl who had served our drinks earlier was standing beside the bar, loading beer onto her enormous tray.

  “Is there a back way out of here?” I hissed in her ear.

  She grinned. “Had enough of our Mister Rowanby, have ye?”

  I shot her a pleading look.

  “Righ’. No’ that I blame ye—he’s a bit much to handle, sometimes. But ye likely should know…” she leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Forget the whole ‘gnome’ thing. He’s also known as ‘Rabbie the tripod,’ and for good reason, luv.”

  She grinned at my look of horror. “Righ’, righ’—I see he’s no’ for you. No worries. Just past the bogs there’s a door marked ‘private’. Inside’s a flight o’ stairs. Beneath the landing is another door that’ll lead you out to the lane.”

  I dropped a two-pound coin on her tray. “Thank you!”

  “Ta, yerself. And mind you don’t go up them stairs. Office is up there, and I’ll catch hell if any of the brass sees yeh, aye?”

  “Got it. And thanks again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ach, you aren’t the first and ye won’t be the last to need an escape route from wee Rabbie. For all his endowments, the man’s a menace to anything with a vagina.”

  “Or a bound foot,” I muttered, as I pushed my way toward the door and my freedom.

  It was slightly less crowded at the back of the pub, but even so, the door was located in such a dark corner it was hard to see. When I shook the handle, it felt like it was locked. I looked over my shoulder to see the server in conversation with Rabbie. Then they turned and looked right at me. I grabbed the handle with both hands and yanked it with all my strength.

  The door swung open and I threw myself inside, only to come face-to-face with the brunette woman with the backpack, just coming down the stairs. She was no longer holding a drink, since her free hand was in her pocket, but the loaded pack was still slung over her shoulder.

  “I—I …” she began, but I interrupted her.

  “You,” I said, “just saved my life.”

  Her expression could best be described as somewhat confused. “I saved your … what?”

  “OI!” came a man’s voice from the top of the stairs. “That you, Helen? We’re out of bluidy ink!”

  She shot a look up the stairs and I held my finger to my lips. Behind her in the dim stairwell, a brass doorknob gleamed under a sign that said Door Alarmed. I took a deep breath and turned the knob. Icy night-time air swirled in, but no alarm went off.

  “HELEN?” called the voice, and we both piled outside and hastily slammed the door behind us.

  I set off in the direction of the hostel, and the girl kept pace with me, tucking her head into a voluminous wool scarf.

  “Thanks,” I said as we hurried up the street. “I owe you one.”

  “Yeah,” she said, and shot me a grin. “Apparently I jes’ saved yer feckin’ life for yeh.”

  I grinned back at her. “You did. I’ve been held captive in there for the past hour by a sex-crazed gnome. Dwarf. I—I mean, little person.”

  She laughed. “An’ here I thought you Americans were all about the political correctness.”

  “He called himself Rabbie the Gnome—I swear! Anyway, I told him you were my cousin Susan. Didn’t you hear him yell at you? He practically deafened everyone in the place.”

  She laughed again. “No, I didn’t. But it’s funny, that—because me name is Susan.”

  I stopped in the street and stared at her. “Seriously?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Fer real, an all. Susan D—Susan O’Donnell.”

  She stuck out her hand and I shook it. “Emma Sheridan.”

  She nodded at my backpack. “Where are ye stayin’, when yer not trying to avoid randy gnomes?”

  I pointed up the street. “My hostel’s up that way.”

  “Really? Mine, too. I’ll walk wit’ ye. Luckily, we Irish are good at protectin’ ourselves from the wee folk.”

  I laughed. “Oh, you’re from Ireland? Whereabouts?”

  She inclined her head. “The Republic, o’course. Yeh evir been?”

  “No. This is my first time in the United Kingdom.”

  “Ah, well, and you with such an Irish name, and all. I’m a Dubliner. Headin’ north to visit family on Skye. When I’m not rescuing fair Americans.”

  I grinned. “Well, you know, his friend was cute, and seemed pretty nice until Rabbie arrived. He was an unbelievable horn-dog.”

  She laughed. “Horn dog, eh? I’ve niver heard that one, but I like it. Horn dog.” She repeated it with an American accent, and I laughed too. Her accent was terrible.

  We walked up the street as the wind from the river tried its best to freeze every exposed bit of my flesh. I had my hood pulled up but was seriously envying Susan her scarf by the time we neared the hostel.

  “This is me,” I said, stepping into the shelter of the doorway.

  She glanced up at the sign over the door. “Away wit’ yeh! Me too!”

  We had to step aside as a loudly chattering group of young males tumbled out the doorway. Susan gave me a thoughtful look.

  “What’re yer plans for tomorrow?”

  I shrugged. “I—uh—just looking around for old stone circles, actually.”

  She jammed her hands further in her pockets. “Care to meet for coffee in the morning before you set out? I’ve a mind to see a few sights around here before I head north. If you’re willin’ to put up wit’ the company.”

  “Why not?” I said, and opened the door, holding it for her.

  But she stepped backwards. “Oh, I’m not goin’ in yet. I’ve a fair few errands to do before I hit the sheets tonight.” She grinned and pointed at a heavily shuttered cafe across the street. “Meet ye at nine sharp, yeah?”

  “Sure thing,” I said, and watched her stride off into the swirling snow.

  Fate & Faith…

  8:30 am, March 15

  Inverness, Scotland

  A few brief thoughts on having faith in human nature while traveling:

  Just because someone buys you a drink in a bar does not mean his intentions are noble.

  Have the strength of character to just walk away. If a situation feels bad, it probably is. Follow your gut instinct!

  If you do find yourself backed into a corner, girl power can save you. I speak from experience——having faith in our sisters has saved many a woman trapped on the bench seat of a bar by a gnome.

  And to finish, a public service announcement for anyone planning to come to this beautiful old city:

  Do not accept cranberry juice offered by an odd little man with a penchant for Asian ladies’ feet. Do not then go on and drink two of these drinks, no matter how good they taste.

  You will thank me.

  - ES

  Comments: 1

  HiHoKitty, Sapporo, Japan:

  Emma, your remark about feet shows ignorance of vast differences in Asian cultures. Book club members expect better.

  My room in the hostel was warm and snug, and had a bonus kettle, though no biscuits to be found. I’d slept like a cranberry-vodka-saturated log, and rose to find the day painfully sunshiny, with no traces of the tiny flakes that had blown so viciously through the gaps in my coat the night before. My knee was swollen to the size of a baseball, and my head felt even worse. Since I’d posted already, cruising on the house Wi-Fi, I left the laptop locked in my room and headed down the stairs with just my p
ack over my shoulder.

  I made it over to the coffee shop, and was sitting in a corner when Susan walked in. The effects of Rabbie’s pink drinks were far less desirable in the cold hard light of a Scottish morning, and it is possible I may have had to rest my head on the table once or twice. By contrast, Susan had a spring in her step and such a twinkle in her eye that I dropped my head into my hands.

  “Oi—feelin a bi’ rough, are yeh?” she said. I nodded and sipped my coffee.

  “Well, we can’t have tha now, can we? I’ll jes’ have yer cup, here, shall I?” She slid my coffee out from between my protesting hands and poured a dollop of something into it from a flask she whipped out of her coat pocket.

  “Ohhhh—I don’t think so,” I whispered. Even the sound of my own words echoed painfully around in my head. “I’ve taken some aspirin. I’ll be better soon.”

  “Nonsense. Drink that right up. Is it hot enough?”

  She peered at the steam coming off the cup with one of her over-bright eyes, and pronounced it just right. “Go on. Drink it. We haven’t all day for you to be scuppered now, do we?”

  She pushed the cup back into my hands. The steam wafted up and fogged my glasses. I hadn’t even the strength of character to get my contacts into my eyes that morning.

  “Aren’t you going to have something?” I asked, weakly, stalling.

  The coffee shop smelled sickeningly of porridge and fresh scones. “At least let me buy you a cup of tea,” I said, as she slapped a local map down on the table.

  “Nah, I wouldn’t think of it,” she said, but when the girl came by to wipe down the table, she agreed to a hot drink, and then jumped up to have a look behind the counter.

  Moments later, she returned to the table with two bacon rolls and a large cup of coffee. She stared sternly at my still-full cup. “Get that inside yeh. We’ve a day to plan.”

  I nodded obediently and took a sip. Whatever she’d done to the coffee made it taste like road tar. With insects in it.

  Susan heaved an exasperated sigh and stood up. “Let me just give yeh a hand …” she began, and before I knew what was happening, she had my nose pinched between two fingers. When I opened my mouth to gasp out a protest, she poured half of the steaming cup down my throat. The other half splattered onto my lap and across the table.