My Highland Home

At seventeen you are either blessed or cursed. The sad fact of the matter is that there are many factors, ones which are wholly beyond your control, that play into that equation that lands you in the In-Crowd or banished to the Outcasts. My existence fitted more soundly in the middle, as though Blessing and Curse took turns fighting over exactly which would claim me, which I more or less had little care for. At seventeen I was a little, well screwed up.

Not crazy screwed up or anything like that. Just more aware that I wasn’t sure who I was yet than most. Or maybe more willing to admit it, might be a better way to put that. It seemed no matter how I sought to find myself; I never was able to find a place where I felt I belonged. It also helped that we were never in the same place longer than a school term. Having no long term friends certainly did me no favours. Also, consider that my parents really had no business having a child. They didn’t abuse me or even treat me poorly; they just really had no concept of how to go about childrearing. Which considering that I was not only unplanned, but also a surprise to my pushing 40 parents, it makes some sense.

They did their best. Which considering that I’d lived in 20 different cities before my sweet 16 (many of them not within the boarders of my native America) was saying something. Truly, my childhood was almost gypsy like. Mostly because my father’s greatest love, history, was also his obsession and he was always on a quest to sate said obsession. This in truth made his nature rather fickle. Whenever we moved there was that rare peaceful time when I began to hope. That this would be the last move that I could have a best friend or join the swim team if I wanted. But it never lasted, after a few months he’d grow restless and his fixation soon had his eye wandering to a different position with a different college.

In this respect my mother wasn’t much help. Supportive of his addiction, yes; willing to deny him his addiction, no. I suppose to her, it didn’t bother her to try and find another position every time he grew bored. It didn’t bother either of them that I’d stopped unpacking my things by the time I was 12. Or that our apartment, loft, townhouse, house, tent or whatever living arrangements they were bound to find always consisted more of boxes than actual furniture. It didn’t matter to them if there wasn’t immediate access to running water, electricity or indoor plumbing. It was hell having two archaeologists for parents, especially when it became quite clear that their careers were more important than the creature comforts and attention a normal teenage girl requires.

So, there I was at seventeen chomping at the bit to turn eighteen and go off to college and start my life over. You better believe it was going to be different! I’d have my own place to come home to every night, with all my things unpacked and placed where they belonged and a modern bathroom that I wouldn’t have to share with twenty or more people. It was less than half the year away and I couldn’t wait. I so longed for the normalcy of a life away from a dig, just the simple things that most people took for granted.

The summer after my junior year of high school, of which I’d started in a completely different school, held such promise. No dig that summer! I was ecstatic! The Professors had promised, in honour of my golden birthday we would do something different for the whole summer. I admit I was doubtful they’d keep their promise. It seemed that something persuasive always popped up and before I knew it their well meaning promises were out the window. But, really I shouldn’t have doubted them. Instead, I should’ve been down right suspicious. I should’ve been old enough to know better really, that either one of them would put aside their passion for history and actually do something that was relevant and interesting to a seventeen year old girl.

So imagine my surprise when our things were packed up, sigh, for the second time in sixth months and shipped across the Atlantic to where I find myself now, sweating my buttocks off in a heavy wool dress slaving over a fire. The Professors had volunteered me for this latest curse. Kitchen help to crotchety Mrs. McCabe who’s accent was so thick I could barely decipher her instructions, which was horrifying enough, until you factored in that the whole keep (as in castle) was a Medieval re-enactment. And the most important rule, first and foremost was that nothing modern was allowed. My iPod had been confiscated the first day. My cell phone with my only link to the outside world had shortly followed.

The clothes were awful and itchy; at least the ones I was to wear were, as I was lower on the keep totem pole than the lowest maid. My fingernails were worn to nothing, my hands were severely dry from washing dishes with harsh lye soap and I had just managed to singe another hole in the hem of yet another of my dresses. After the second day I longed to ask my parents how this was supposed to be fun. My pitiful wage was well below the worth of all the work I did and usually I was so exhausted by the time I was finished with the evening dishes I collapsed into my uncomfortable pallet and slept like the dead until Mrs. McCabe screeched at me to get up and tend the kitchen fire.

Sure, I suppose living in a castle might be cool, if I’d actually had time to enjoy it. I guess I should have been excited to be in Scotland and having this once in a life time experience, but somehow all the work and no play had soured me to it. It didn’t help that The Professors were playing the role of a visiting Laird and his Lady and basically enjoying the life of luxury above stairs. Sulking, I cursed and stamped at the hem of my gown again, quickly smothering an ember that had shot from the fire as a log split and settled.

“You daft girl, if you’d pay more attention to what you’re doing you wouldn’t be liable to set yourself ablaze,” Mrs. McCabe tsked, then with a shooing motion, commanded, “Out with you, go draw me some water Kenzie!”

I wanted to tell her to get stuffed, but with all the sharp implements in the room I reasoned that that might not be the wisest thing to tell Mrs. McCabe. Instead, I heaved a sigh and went to the door and picked up the pail. Perhaps I should’ve been grateful to be out of the muggy heat of the kitchen and into the cooler fresh air of the day, but I was truly sulking now. Pouting really, because I had to trek all the way to the well and draw the bloody water up. It doesn’t sound like a daunting task, until you actually have to perform it about two dozen times a day. I thought about shirking my duties, oh did I give it great thought, but instead I plodded along in my ill fitting period shoes and did what I was told. At least, I tried to.

It was as I was bent over the stone lip of the well, tugging and cursing at the rope to return up from the great deep of the well that I had the strangest impression. It felt like two tiny ice cold hands jammed against my back. The sick sensation I had as I started a moment later, already to late to catch myself, I fell head first through the mouth of the well. A strangled cry died in my throat as my head glanced off the unforgiving stone side and I was momentarily dazed before I struck another stone with more force. The last thing I remember was gasping as I hit the icy water and then the world went black and absolutely silent.