Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

“No.”

“Now we know that someone else was with him in Fort Augustus.”

“Do we?”

“It was Axel Osvald who was sitting beside Johnson in the car. Whoever Johnson is.”

“Anyone could have been sitting beside him,” Winter said.

And Johnson could be anyone, he thought.

Macdonald grunted and changed position but kept crouching.

“What did you say, Steve?”

“Do you want to believe this, or what?”

“What do you mean?”

“That it’s a crime.”

“I hope it’s not a crime,” Winter said.

Macdonald grunted again. Maybe it was in Gaelic. He got up. It was as though the darkness was falling at one hundred miles an hour now. Winter could see Macdonald’s teeth and the shape of his head. Steve mumbled something and turned around, toward land, toward the Monadhliath Mountains. Aviemore, the skiing paradise, was on the other side of the chain of mountains. But there was no paradise here, only wind and cold. Winter felt the tip of his own nose become cold. He had no gloves. His fingers started to become cold.

“Why this place?” Macdonald said now, as though to himself. He started to walk away, quickly.

“It is a crime,” he said as they stood next to the car. “The question is what kind.” He opened the car door. “It could be worse than we thought.”

“You don’t need to think out loud, Steve,” Winter said, and climbed in on his side.

Angela came out of the bathroom. Winter was lying crosswise on the bed with his head at an uncomfortable angle.

“Is that an acrobat trick?” she said.

“I have to get the blood back into my head,” he said.

She sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Yes, you seemed a little sluggish during dinner.”

“I did?”

“You and Steve both did, to be honest.”

Winter lifted his head and sat up.

“Like we said, it was a strange feeling to be up there this afternoon, in the mountains.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I’m sorry if I ruined dinner.”

“No, no, it was nice.”

Winter climbed up from the bed and walked over to the console table and poured out a little whisky from the bottle he’d bought at the airport. He lifted the bottle but Angela shook her head.

Winter drank the whisky, which was a Benrinnes. He saw his own face in the mirror. It still looked frozen from the wind on Murligan Hill. He rubbed his chin. He saw Angela’s amused face in the mirror. He made an ugly face. He thought of Old Man Macdonald. Steve had told Angela and Sarah about him during dinner, and about other strange things having to do with the clans in Scotland. It was, as Steve had said earlier, mostly very sad stories. But many of them were also senseless, comical.

Winter turned around.

“So we get to see Dallas, then,” he said.

She nodded.

“But you two will get there first,” she said.

He and Steve would leave early in the morning. Angela and Sarah would wait for Steve’s sister, Eilidh, and the three women would leave around lunchtime.

“It’s funny,” said Angela, “when I hear the name Dallas, or read about it, I immediately think of the name Kennedy.” She waved a finger. “I think I’ll take a whiskey after all, a small one.” Winter took a glass from the table. “But of course this is a different Dallas. Proto-Dallas, as Steve said.”

Winter nodded and poured out a half inch.

“But Kennedy is also the name of a Scottish clan, isn’t it?” she said, and took the glass.

Halfway to Nairn, Macdonald pointed to a road sign: Cawdor Castle.

“Do you know your Shakespeare?” he asked.

Winter saw the sign.

“Give me a minute.”

Cawdor, Cawdor, Cawdor. Thane of Cawdor.

“ Macbeth, ” said Winter.

Macdonald tipped the hat he didn’t have.

“Do you believe that story, too?” asked Winter.

“Not about the castle,” Macdonald said, “even if it is from the early thirteen-hundreds. But I believe the myth.”

“That was a true tale of murder,” said Winter.

“You could say that I grew up near two monsters,” Macdonald said, “Nessie and Macbeth.”

“How has that affected you?” asked Winter.

“I don’t know yet.”

They drove between fields that breathed sea. Winter looked to the right, across the river Nairn.

They drove through Nairn, which was built of brown granite. The sound of gulls was intense. The sky was blue; there were no clouds. The city was next to the sea.

“This is the best place for sun in Scotland,” Macdonald said. “We came here to swim sometimes when I was a child.”

They continued on the A96 toward Forres. Winter saw the clouds inland.

How far is’t call’d to Forres? What are these

So wither’d and so wild in their attire,

That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth,

And yet are on’t?

Macdonald swung through two roundabouts and parked on High Street in front of Chimes Tearoom. They got out of the car.

“This is the street of my youth,” said Macdonald. “Forres was the closest I got to a city.” He looked around. “It isn’t much more than this street.”

Fraser Bros. meats on the other side of High Street displayed a sign for “Award Winning Haggis.” Winter knew that haggis was the national dish of Scotland, a hash made of sheep stomach and oatmeal. He had refrained from eating it thus far.

“Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!” said Macdonald, who noticed his gaze.

Winter smiled.

“Robert Burns,” said Macdonald. “Ode to a Haggis”:

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,

Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!

Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang’s my arm.

“I wish we had poetry like that in Sweden,” said Winter. “Poetry in honor of hash.”

“Then let’s have coffee,” said Macdonald, and they stepped into Chimes and sat down at one of the tables in the window. A woman their age came up and took the order from Macdonald: two caffe lattes and two slices of Dundee cake. She had short, dark brown hair and an open face. She lingered at the table.

“Isn’t that Steve?” she said.

“Yes…,” said Macdonald, suddenly getting up. “Lorraine.”

She reached up and gave him a hug.

“Long time no see,” she said.

“Very long,” said Macdonald.

She turned around and saw that the line was beginning to grow at the counter, where her coworker was raising an eyebrow.

“I have to work,” she said, throwing a quick glance at Winter.

“A Swedish friend,” said Macdonald, turning toward Winter.

Winter got up and extended his hand. They greeted each other. She gave Macdonald another smile.

“Will you be here this afternoon?”

“I’m sorry, Lorraine. We’re on our way to Aberdeen.”

“Ah.”

She turned around and walked quickly to the counter. Macdonald and Winter sat down. Winter saw a note to the right of the counter: “One person needed for washing dishes and pots, Wednesdays and Fridays 11-2.”

Macdonald cleared his throat discreetly.

“Old flame,” he said.

“Mmhmm,” said Winter.

“Like you and Johanna Osvald.”

“Did I tell you about that?”

Macdonald didn’t answer. He looked around, looked out through the window. People went into Fraser Bros., came out with prize-winning haggis.

“It’s been quite a few years since I was here last,” said Macdonald.

Winter didn’t answer. Macdonald met his gaze.

“I don’t know,” said Macdonald, “you almost get some sort of feeling of… shame when you come back. Like you’re guilty of something. Like you’re ashamed that you left here once, failed them, maybe. I don’t know if you understand this, Erik. If it’s even possible to understand.”