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A Lowland Adventure - Mr. Maxwells' Vacation
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
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montycrusto
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Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I am overwhelmed and deeply, deeply touched by your comments.
Speaking of being deeply touched:
Kaarina's Story:
Kaarina was a country girl raised on a farm in Jurvala, Finland. Only in the last couple of decades had the region begun to recover from the Russian War’s devastation significantly. Her family lived just above poverty on a small allotment far from town. Kaarina, along with her six siblings, had grown up accustomed to the hard work of farming. When she turned eighteen, the blonde, strongly-built, and shapely girl applied for migrant jobs in the United Kingdom. Some eschewed the back-breaking agricultural labor that dominated that sector. To Kaarina, the work and the pay seemed ideal.
Kaarina's application was accepted, and the agency placed her on a sheep farm near Langholm in the Scottish Borders. The family was friendly, and Kaarina worked hard.
On a day off, she walked to town to wire her wages back to her family. It would be there just in time for her youngest sister’s birthday.
No money was wired.
Waking
“Well, aren’t we a big strong girl?” A cloying voice in a slight Scots accent asked. Kaarina, bound and gagged, naked and spread, did not answer.
“I have customers who prefer solid, well-muscled girls over those delicate little things that are all the fashion. They want someone who will last. Someone with the strength to absorb a lot of punishment. Is that you, Kaarina? Will you last a long time?”
The Finnish girl pulled with all her might at her bonds, but they gave not an inch. Blinded by the bright light overhead, she looked frantically around. The room had a musty odor. But then she smelled something else: sweet? Metallic? Like an electric spark.
"Let's see if you are strong." She saw the man with the mask. Now he was naked, and his dick was fully erect. He leaned down close to her side. In his hand was a thing. Like a fancy pen? Or - or a soldering iron! Her eyes flashed wide.
“Oh don’t worry, my dear,” I can brand you somewhat without losing value. Buyers for girl’s like you actually look for marks of pain. It shows you can take it.”
“The underarm is a fine place to start, I think. Feel free to scream, Kaarina.” His hand moved forward, and the tip of the instrument touched her. In a few milliseconds, pain exploded in her mind. And then, she screamed.
Speaking of being deeply touched:
Kaarina's Story:
Kaarina was a country girl raised on a farm in Jurvala, Finland. Only in the last couple of decades had the region begun to recover from the Russian War’s devastation significantly. Her family lived just above poverty on a small allotment far from town. Kaarina, along with her six siblings, had grown up accustomed to the hard work of farming. When she turned eighteen, the blonde, strongly-built, and shapely girl applied for migrant jobs in the United Kingdom. Some eschewed the back-breaking agricultural labor that dominated that sector. To Kaarina, the work and the pay seemed ideal.
Kaarina's application was accepted, and the agency placed her on a sheep farm near Langholm in the Scottish Borders. The family was friendly, and Kaarina worked hard.
On a day off, she walked to town to wire her wages back to her family. It would be there just in time for her youngest sister’s birthday.
No money was wired.
Waking
“Well, aren’t we a big strong girl?” A cloying voice in a slight Scots accent asked. Kaarina, bound and gagged, naked and spread, did not answer.
“I have customers who prefer solid, well-muscled girls over those delicate little things that are all the fashion. They want someone who will last. Someone with the strength to absorb a lot of punishment. Is that you, Kaarina? Will you last a long time?”
The Finnish girl pulled with all her might at her bonds, but they gave not an inch. Blinded by the bright light overhead, she looked frantically around. The room had a musty odor. But then she smelled something else: sweet? Metallic? Like an electric spark.
"Let's see if you are strong." She saw the man with the mask. Now he was naked, and his dick was fully erect. He leaned down close to her side. In his hand was a thing. Like a fancy pen? Or - or a soldering iron! Her eyes flashed wide.
“Oh don’t worry, my dear,” I can brand you somewhat without losing value. Buyers for girl’s like you actually look for marks of pain. It shows you can take it.”
“The underarm is a fine place to start, I think. Feel free to scream, Kaarina.” His hand moved forward, and the tip of the instrument touched her. In a few milliseconds, pain exploded in her mind. And then, she screamed.
Now that’s loathsome!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
You are just jealous of Kaarina.Now that’s loathsome!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 12]
Things are Seldom What They Seem*
Jessie's hand flew to her mouth in fear. Just then, the phone rang, and they both jumped.
"Pardon me. That'll be work. I dinna get mony cas, bit whan I dae, they're usually frae a fykie client, an I mun answer."
Jessie picked up the phone and said cheerily (though Alex thought he heard a strain in her voice), "Jessie Mctaggert. How can I help you." It seemed to Alex that she was looking for a place to go to not have him overhear. However, his detective sense told him to stay.
"Ah, thank you for calling, Professor Matsuki. It's an honor to be editing your fascinating work on words for rodents in the early Indo-European languages. It's only a couple of minor matters for clarification, just for readers who may not be aware of all the implications. Yes, first, I would recommend the change on page 368 to 'aik' for the West Germanic root of the 'oak' words - German Eiche, Dutch eik, and so on. Of course, word-processors can be so tiresome! But the particular point I suggest may need to be spelled out, if only in a footnote, is that 'acorn,' although it seems similar to Eichhorn, is not actually related. Quite, although it sounded like 'āc-corn,' 'oak-corn,' oak-seed, it was actually from a word æcern that was apparently unconnected with 'oak' or 'corn' - instead it's related to Old Norse akern, Dutch aker – ah, but German Ecker is apparently from Low German. Yes, indeed, but as you say in your text, Old English āc-weorna was a squirrel, and that would be cognate with aik-wernan, Eichhorn. Precisely, that's from the root you show to be werwer- Latin viverra, Russian vevirca, Scottish Gaelic feorag, and so on .... That's no problem, Sir, I'm always happy to be of help. I'm sure your seminal work will prove to be ground-breaking!"
As Alex listened, he was astonished to hear the esoteric conversation. Jessie, who had seemed to him a simple country girl, more at home in the Forest than in an office or classroom, was incredibly knowledgeable of language history. She was much more educated than Alex! She sounded like an English Professor. Then it struck him! An English Professor. Jessie was speaking standard English. She sounded almost like the Queen!
Eventually, Jessie calmed her client down, and she was able to ring off. She looked at Alex a little sheepishly, wondering what he thought.
"Well," he said, his arms folded across his chest. "I'm most impressed by your learning and fluency with arcane language. But I do have one question. How come I've been breaking my head trying to understand your Scottish talk when you can speak better English than I can?"
Jessie looked at the Sassenach with a mixture of guilt and defiance.
"It's ... it's the langage that feels sort of 'reet' tae me whan I'm on ma hame grund ... but Alex, I was talkin the way I'd usually use wi a visitor, it wisna braid Scots by a lang mile! An, a dinna ken, a jus jalouse ... I mean I, I can talk to you like I talk to an Oxbridge prof if that's what you want, but I sense you want me to be masel - a 'real' Scot, dinna ye, Alex?" Jessie withheld the other reason she knew for the way she'd spoken before him. It maintained a distance. If they spoke different dialects, it was less likely they'd begin to talk of intimate things. It was a way for her to hide her emotions.
Alex felt the sincerity and regret in her words. She was trying to honor his feeling. "OK, I appreciate your position. Though if you were speaking for my benefit, I dread to hear you use "Broad Scots!" said Alex. "I don't care about you being a real Scot. I came here to see the lovely scenery and not because I was looking to fool around with exotic Scottish girls. I happen to like Jessie for Jessie, not her accent. His shy smile while saying that was very touching to Jessie.
"Can we settle on how you've been speaking now - I'm almost getting an ear for some of it? But remember, I've never known anything except everyday vanilla Upper- Midwest America talking. Please try to edit the more obscure parts of the local lingua so that I don't need to run to an online Scots translator every few moments?"
"That's fair," said Jessie, brightly. However, then she turned serious, "But, Alex, what do ye think happened here?"
"I need to examine the room a little more. Please sit over at your desk and stay quiet for a few minutes."
Jessie did as told and watched Alex walk around the room, poking randomly at papers and knick-knacks. After a few minutes, he asked politely, "May I go to the kitchen and bedroom."
"Aye ... yis, ye can" Jessie was amazed at such courtesy from an American.
After about ten minutes, he reentered the room, sat on a chair, and closed his eyes. He was so still that Jessie thought he might have fallen asleep.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at her.
"There are three factors that make it hard to say much about the perpetrator. The first is due to an observation about him: he is a professional. The cleanness of his lock picking, and the very few noticeable signs that he left, make it hard to deduce much about him except that he is very experienced at this kind of thing."
"The second problem is that it is hard to triangulate on a criminal when seeing only one example of his work. If we could examine two or three homes that he entered, we could say a lot more about him."
"The third difficult factor is an extension of the second in the form of an unknown. Is this the same man I saw carrying a girl in the forest? I presume so, but the evidence is not conclusive. If I base my judgment on that premise, I might go in a completely wrong direction. As it is, there is very little I can say for sure about our home invader."
"Can ye no say onythin mair aboot him?"
"Just a few simple deductions. He is male, 28-40, above-average height, well-built, maybe an athlete. He is successful in life, perhaps even wealthy. He has a deeply perverted view of woman, and he has medium length blond hair."
Jessie stared with wide-eyes of astonishment. "Fecks! Hoo did ye…I mean, God, how do ye ken all that?" she exclaimed.
"Elementary, my dear Jessie." Said Alex with a broad, self-satisfied smile. "It's not all that difficult if you do it all the time for your work. Like your magical way with those obscure word origins." Jessie smiled at the compliment.
"Size and weight come from his stride and some depths of impression as well as tilting my estimate based on the man I saw. Age and sex are based on extensive statistical studies of such perpetrators. Some parts are instinctive with me; I think my way into his mind."
"Very impressive. But blond and hair length?"
"I found a hair on your bedside table. Given your generally commendable level of cleanliness, it had to have been dropped in the last couple of days at most. Unless you have entertained another man besides me in your bedroom recently, it had to be his."
"I DINNA enterteen YE in there either!" said Jessie with some heat.
"Just kidding, Miss McTaggert. If you had entertained me, I would surely treasure the memory."
Jessie harumphed at Alex's risque implication but smiled inwardly at the praise. "So, what do we do now?"
"We go to the police. We've already waited longer than we should. We need to know what missing girls they have on record."
"Girls? D'ye think he's taen mair nor ane?"
"If he's taken one, he's taken more than one. Of that, I'm Positive."
Jessie shivered at the thought.
"Where's the nearest police station with detectives?"
"I'd guess in Dumfries, that's the Department Headquarters."
"That's far. What's closer?"
"The Johnstoun Station, jist north o Kenmuir. That's less than fifteen minutes frae here. The Sergeant there is really very nice."
"OK, let's head there."
As they left and Jessie carefully locked the door, Alex bent down and stuck a small leaf between the door and threshold. She looked at him quizzically.
"If it's not there when you return, you know someone's opened the door. Now let's go and see your handsome police Sergeant."
"I never said he was handsome!"
"You didn't have to," said Alex, climbing gingerly into the car.
*Things are Seldom What They Seem – HMS Pinafore, Sir William Schwenck Gilbert
Things are Seldom What They Seem*
Jessie's hand flew to her mouth in fear. Just then, the phone rang, and they both jumped.
"Pardon me. That'll be work. I dinna get mony cas, bit whan I dae, they're usually frae a fykie client, an I mun answer."
Jessie picked up the phone and said cheerily (though Alex thought he heard a strain in her voice), "Jessie Mctaggert. How can I help you." It seemed to Alex that she was looking for a place to go to not have him overhear. However, his detective sense told him to stay.
"Ah, thank you for calling, Professor Matsuki. It's an honor to be editing your fascinating work on words for rodents in the early Indo-European languages. It's only a couple of minor matters for clarification, just for readers who may not be aware of all the implications. Yes, first, I would recommend the change on page 368 to 'aik' for the West Germanic root of the 'oak' words - German Eiche, Dutch eik, and so on. Of course, word-processors can be so tiresome! But the particular point I suggest may need to be spelled out, if only in a footnote, is that 'acorn,' although it seems similar to Eichhorn, is not actually related. Quite, although it sounded like 'āc-corn,' 'oak-corn,' oak-seed, it was actually from a word æcern that was apparently unconnected with 'oak' or 'corn' - instead it's related to Old Norse akern, Dutch aker – ah, but German Ecker is apparently from Low German. Yes, indeed, but as you say in your text, Old English āc-weorna was a squirrel, and that would be cognate with aik-wernan, Eichhorn. Precisely, that's from the root you show to be werwer- Latin viverra, Russian vevirca, Scottish Gaelic feorag, and so on .... That's no problem, Sir, I'm always happy to be of help. I'm sure your seminal work will prove to be ground-breaking!"
As Alex listened, he was astonished to hear the esoteric conversation. Jessie, who had seemed to him a simple country girl, more at home in the Forest than in an office or classroom, was incredibly knowledgeable of language history. She was much more educated than Alex! She sounded like an English Professor. Then it struck him! An English Professor. Jessie was speaking standard English. She sounded almost like the Queen!
Eventually, Jessie calmed her client down, and she was able to ring off. She looked at Alex a little sheepishly, wondering what he thought.
"Well," he said, his arms folded across his chest. "I'm most impressed by your learning and fluency with arcane language. But I do have one question. How come I've been breaking my head trying to understand your Scottish talk when you can speak better English than I can?"
Jessie looked at the Sassenach with a mixture of guilt and defiance.
"It's ... it's the langage that feels sort of 'reet' tae me whan I'm on ma hame grund ... but Alex, I was talkin the way I'd usually use wi a visitor, it wisna braid Scots by a lang mile! An, a dinna ken, a jus jalouse ... I mean I, I can talk to you like I talk to an Oxbridge prof if that's what you want, but I sense you want me to be masel - a 'real' Scot, dinna ye, Alex?" Jessie withheld the other reason she knew for the way she'd spoken before him. It maintained a distance. If they spoke different dialects, it was less likely they'd begin to talk of intimate things. It was a way for her to hide her emotions.
Alex felt the sincerity and regret in her words. She was trying to honor his feeling. "OK, I appreciate your position. Though if you were speaking for my benefit, I dread to hear you use "Broad Scots!" said Alex. "I don't care about you being a real Scot. I came here to see the lovely scenery and not because I was looking to fool around with exotic Scottish girls. I happen to like Jessie for Jessie, not her accent. His shy smile while saying that was very touching to Jessie.
"Can we settle on how you've been speaking now - I'm almost getting an ear for some of it? But remember, I've never known anything except everyday vanilla Upper- Midwest America talking. Please try to edit the more obscure parts of the local lingua so that I don't need to run to an online Scots translator every few moments?"
"That's fair," said Jessie, brightly. However, then she turned serious, "But, Alex, what do ye think happened here?"
"I need to examine the room a little more. Please sit over at your desk and stay quiet for a few minutes."
Jessie did as told and watched Alex walk around the room, poking randomly at papers and knick-knacks. After a few minutes, he asked politely, "May I go to the kitchen and bedroom."
"Aye ... yis, ye can" Jessie was amazed at such courtesy from an American.
After about ten minutes, he reentered the room, sat on a chair, and closed his eyes. He was so still that Jessie thought he might have fallen asleep.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at her.
"There are three factors that make it hard to say much about the perpetrator. The first is due to an observation about him: he is a professional. The cleanness of his lock picking, and the very few noticeable signs that he left, make it hard to deduce much about him except that he is very experienced at this kind of thing."
"The second problem is that it is hard to triangulate on a criminal when seeing only one example of his work. If we could examine two or three homes that he entered, we could say a lot more about him."
"The third difficult factor is an extension of the second in the form of an unknown. Is this the same man I saw carrying a girl in the forest? I presume so, but the evidence is not conclusive. If I base my judgment on that premise, I might go in a completely wrong direction. As it is, there is very little I can say for sure about our home invader."
"Can ye no say onythin mair aboot him?"
"Just a few simple deductions. He is male, 28-40, above-average height, well-built, maybe an athlete. He is successful in life, perhaps even wealthy. He has a deeply perverted view of woman, and he has medium length blond hair."
Jessie stared with wide-eyes of astonishment. "Fecks! Hoo did ye…I mean, God, how do ye ken all that?" she exclaimed.
"Elementary, my dear Jessie." Said Alex with a broad, self-satisfied smile. "It's not all that difficult if you do it all the time for your work. Like your magical way with those obscure word origins." Jessie smiled at the compliment.
"Size and weight come from his stride and some depths of impression as well as tilting my estimate based on the man I saw. Age and sex are based on extensive statistical studies of such perpetrators. Some parts are instinctive with me; I think my way into his mind."
"Very impressive. But blond and hair length?"
"I found a hair on your bedside table. Given your generally commendable level of cleanliness, it had to have been dropped in the last couple of days at most. Unless you have entertained another man besides me in your bedroom recently, it had to be his."
"I DINNA enterteen YE in there either!" said Jessie with some heat.
"Just kidding, Miss McTaggert. If you had entertained me, I would surely treasure the memory."
Jessie harumphed at Alex's risque implication but smiled inwardly at the praise. "So, what do we do now?"
"We go to the police. We've already waited longer than we should. We need to know what missing girls they have on record."
"Girls? D'ye think he's taen mair nor ane?"
"If he's taken one, he's taken more than one. Of that, I'm Positive."
Jessie shivered at the thought.
"Where's the nearest police station with detectives?"
"I'd guess in Dumfries, that's the Department Headquarters."
"That's far. What's closer?"
"The Johnstoun Station, jist north o Kenmuir. That's less than fifteen minutes frae here. The Sergeant there is really very nice."
"OK, let's head there."
As they left and Jessie carefully locked the door, Alex bent down and stuck a small leaf between the door and threshold. She looked at him quizzically.
"If it's not there when you return, you know someone's opened the door. Now let's go and see your handsome police Sergeant."
"I never said he was handsome!"
"You didn't have to," said Alex, climbing gingerly into the car.
*Things are Seldom What They Seem – HMS Pinafore, Sir William Schwenck Gilbert
Now THAT’S what I call diplomacy! Fascinating? Seriously?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Truthfully? For Jessie? It is!Now THAT’S what I call diplomacy! Fascinating? Seriously?
it wisna braid Scots by a lang mile!
For the readers struggling with the Scots, be thankful it hasn't been "braid Scots!"
Migoz2
Senator
I feel the need to take issue with this. I found that paragraph on etymology by far the most interesting thing PrPr has written all year.........Fascinating? Seriously?
Liar!!! He paid you to say that, didn’t he?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
"Now THAT’S what I call diplomacy! Fascinating? Seriously? "
Now, I'm afraid that I must take issue with what seems to be implied by certain CF members who seem more motivated by professional jealousy than an objective search for truth. Wishing it were otherwise, I detect a whiff of that ugly word, plagarism!
It is true that superficially similar passages were posted (in total innocence, I'm sure) in June of 2020 in Odds and Ends and also The Coffee Shop by a respected member. HOWEVER, anyone who has read this story carefully (and not just skimmed it looking for salacious descriptions of the fair and chaste Jessie) would know that the above speech took place on July 5, 2019! Almost a year before the posts on those other threads! I rest my case.
NewUser
Magistrate
Not quite on topic, but funny:
www.liverpoolecho.co.uk
Dad 'woke up with Scottish accent' after covid ventilator coma
Wayne Oldham and his family described the strange side effects of spending weeks unconscious
www.liverpoolecho.co.uk
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Are you (this article) implying that a Scottish accent is a sign of brain damage?Not quite on topic, but funny:
Dad 'woke up with Scottish accent' after covid ventilator coma
Wayne Oldham and his family described the strange side effects of spending weeks unconscious
Beware the wrath of the Eul!
Last edited:
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 13]
“The best of the professionals, I think.”*
The drive north through Kenmuir, across the bridge, and on to Johnstoun was quick and uneventful. Alex frequently stole glances at Jessie as she piloted the nimble little car along the country roads. She was so pretty, he thought. Even from the side, her eyes seemed to glow. As was always the case in such circumstances, Jessie detected his stares. Interestingly, she no longer resented them. However, as with most people, especially women, she did worry that he was drawn to some imperfection on her part.
The Johnstoun Police station occupied a part of "The Motte House" on Ayr Road. It was a pleasant-looking place with the blue-on-white, lighted "Police" signs on the street side. Fortunately, a marked police car was parked in front. On the way, Jessie had explained that police stations in Rural Scotland were only occasionally manned. So it was good luck that someone was there.
As they entered, Alex saw behind a low desk, writing on some forms, a police sergeant, undoubtedly the Sergeant Lindsay that Jessie had mentioned. Although Jessie had steadfastly refused to say anything about him besides his name, he was pretty much as Alex had deduced. Late thirties, medium height, average build, looking to be in good shape, his complexion reflected a life spent outdoors even more than his professional duties might require. His neatly trimmed hair and beard were brown with a strong reddish tint. Even sitting, his posture was erect, and his manner showed a man accustomed to dominating those around him. He wore a wedding ring. When he spoke to greet them, his voice was low but surprisingly gentle.
"Miss McTaggert, it is guid tae see you. An wha might your frien be?" Alex thought the word "friend" sounded slightly disapproving.
"Sergeant Lindsay, this is Alex Maxwell, frae Wisconsin in the States. He's of the Stewartry Maxwells, so treat him with the proper respeck," Jessie said with humor in her voice.
"Pleased tae meet you, Mr. Maxwell," said the Sergeant, rising and giving the visitor a firm but not crushing handshake. "Hoo can Police Scotland be of assistance to you?"
"Pleased to meet you as well," Alex replied. "We have come to report two crimes."
"Twa crimes," Lindsay said, looking slightly askance at Jessie. "That will be a certifeeable crime wave aroon here."
"I believe the same person committed both crimes and may well be certifiable himself."
"Well then, please have a seat and tell me aboot it," the Sergeant took out a new form and sat at the desk.
Jessie started, "He broke into my place, twice!"
"Ye ken it was a man?"
"We believe so," added Alex.
"An whit did he tak? Whit was the total value o the goods stolen?"
"Naethin. He didna tak onythin."
"Aye, I see. A vandal. What damage did he dae?"
"Nae damage. Naethin wis takken nor brokken. He didna lave ony trace. I jist ken someone wis in my place!"
"Aye. Noo, Jessie, I dinna mean tae question your story, bit dinna ye see this isna muckle o a polis matter? Jist be carefu tae lock your door, an likely he'll ne'er come back."
"Bit ma door wis lockit, I sweer I did! He picked the lock!" Jessie raised her voice.
"Alree, there, git a hold o yersel. I unnerstaund ye're upset. Bit dinna ye see there isna muckle fer polis tae dae, wi naethin stolen or brokken, nor ony signs o the person?"
"Our concern, Sergeant,' Alex said, placing his hand on Jessie to calm her, "is that it may be part of the other crime we are here to report." The gesture had that effect at first, then she realized the familiar, patronizing gesture and pulled her hand away.
"An whit might be the other crime?" asked Lindsay with more skepticism in his voice as he noticed, disapprovingly, Alex's familiar gesture with Jessie. These Americans are so sure of themselves.
"Kidnapping. Probably multiple kidnappings. This man is abducting young women, and I dread to think of what he may be doing to them!"
"A serial kidnapper. It isna ivery day we hae ane of those in Gallovidia!" Now the skepticism was front and center.
"I understand this seems a bit wild to you. Let me explain what happened to help you understand why I think so."
"Please do," said the Sergeant,."help me unnerstaun." Now his voice was almost dripping with sarcasm.
Alex proceeded to describe his professional background, which didn't seem to impress the Sergeant. He then related his hike in the forest and seeing the man carrying away what he thought was a girl. He explained his deductions and his thought that the criminal may be after Jessie since she'd parked next to him. He was thereby the likely person who broke in.
Sergeant Lindsay was taking a dislike to the brash American, but he was a professional with almost twenty years with the force. He listened carefully and took many notes. When Alex finished, he looked at those for a minute.
"It is a disturbin story, Mr. Maxwell; indeed, it is. Bit ye mun see it frae ma pint o view. You saw somethin at a distance, in the dusk, in the wuids whaur ye were, by yer ain admission, totally disorientated. Ye havna ony physical evidence other than findin a piece o torn claith. I'm sure Jessie here will tell you the thorns in those wuids will tear an entire coat aff in a few minites. Noo, I wud like to credit your experience frae your work. Bit I hae ane major problem wi creditin your claim o serial kidnappins. There are nae missin person reports currently in the whole of Dumfries an Gallovidia. A few dogs and cats, bit nae persons, nae lassies! I dinna ken aboot those frae ither places. Howane'er, it strains ma puir imagination tae believe that your serial kidnapper is snatchin lassies frae ither pairts o Scotlan, nor e'en Englan, an bringin thaim here tae carry through the deep forest."
Jessie stared at the Sergeant. How could he doubt their story? The way Alex explained it, it was so logical. She began to simmer.
Alex, however, reacted far more calmly. After exchanging a few more words with the policeman, he rose and shook his hand.
"We are most grateful that you took your time to listen to our tale, Sergeant. I appreciate your position. Understand that I came here from a duty to report a possible serious crime, even if the facts and evidence were weak."
"An reet ye were, Mr. Maxwell." Lindsay was impressed by Alex's calm acceptance of his rejection and his nearly professional demeanor. "It's niver wrang tae help the polis wi information that may be usefu."
"But Sandy -" Alex noticed her use of the Sergeant's first name, "whit aboot ma place?"
"Jessie, I wudna fash yer bonnie heid aboot yon muckle mair. Probably ane luik aroon an gane. Ye might think o installin a deadbolt or a security chain."
"Thank ye," she said, shaking his hand but sounding offended by the patronizing address.
After they closed the door, Sergeant Lindsay shook his head a let out a low whistle. “Oor Jessie has a solid heed on her shouders,” he thought, “bit yon Yank! The numpty kens hoot toot aboot Gallovidia, he's jist talkin haggis!”
As they got into the car, Jessie let loose. "Whit an offeecious, thrawn, blin bystart!"
"Take it easy; he's just doing his job."
"His job? Why…"
"We will waste our time arguing with him. If I were in his place, I'd say the same."
"D'ye mean there is nae stalker, nae kidnapper?"
"No. But the Sergeant raised a powerful argument: no missing persons. That is very puzzling. How could our man have snatched more than one young woman without any being reported missing? Especially in a quiet, rural area like this? We have to think a little more about this. How about we go somewhere for lunch and brainstorm? I'm buying. You name the place."
"Nae Scot will refuse free meat!" said Jessie with a broad smile, and she put Clio in gear and motored away.
It was only a couple minutes' drive through Johnstoun to The Monk's Cell Inn, an old stone building with four bright red signs on the sidewall and a bigger one on the end, all advertising the pub.
Inside, the Inn was a classic, dimly-lit, Scottish Pub. When Alex saw there was a back terrace, he insisted on eating out there. Though not an outdoor guy, he loved eating alfresco. Jessie, who loved the Scottish countryside, was not opposed.
They were the only ones outside and got a table with a beautiful view. The River Kean (Jessie corrected that it was the Water of Kean) wound in a great bend at the bottom of a gentle slope, blue and slow-moving. The opposite bank was covered down into the water with great green trees.
The cute and pretty waitress with deep brown eyes and brunette ringlets suggested that Alex try the Monk's Cell Beltie - burger, bacon, cheddar cheese, pickled burger sauce, house chips, baby gem & tomato. Jessie explained it was made with Belted Gallovidia beef, which turned out to be those strange cattle he'd encountered on the road. Jessie ordered Devilled whitebait, tartare, crusty bread. At Jessie's suggestion, they shared a bottle of a decent Chardonnay from New Zealand.
While waiting for their food, Jessie entertained Alex with the local folklore of the 'White Snake of Johnstoun.'
She pointed out that the slope along the curving water above the Pub was the remains of the mote of Johnstoun This was a round hill on the east bank of the Water of Kean, between the town and a deep pool known as the boat-weel. The thirty-yard-wide hill had once been a stronghold and a ditch full of water had stretched around it, connecting to the river. Back in the mists of time, a great white snake (a dragon) took possession of the mote, curling its long, scale-protected body completely around the hill and resting its head in the boat-weel and its tail near where they were now sitting. The villagers had to feed it every day with milk and goats or it would come to town and eat a few of them. With all the feeding, the snake grew so that it swallowed most of its meals whole.
One day, the blacksmith, Michael Fleming by name, discovered that the snake had unearthed the body of his just deceased wife and devoured her. This seemed to exhaust his patience and he determined to challenge the bully. He fashioned himself an armor coat studded with knife-sharp blades that erected when he shook. Wearing this protection, he went and confronted the snake.
The snake was sleeping off its latest meal and only awoke when Michael stabbed it under a scale. Annoyed at the prick, it saw the little man and calmly proceeded to swallow him whole. Once inside, the blacksmith flailed around so that his armor knives came out and cut and pierced the snake until killing him. He then took his knife and cut his way out. The villagers came and carried the hero back into town on their shoulders. It is said that some of the snake’s bones still lie at the bottom of Loch Kean, downriver.**
Alex listened to Jessie enthusiastically sharing the heritage of her beloved region. He was fascinated by the folktale and especially the charming girl telling it. In a magical place like this, he could almost believe such a thing happening.
The wine proved tasty, and the food was excellent. Alex enjoyed the fine meal with a splendid view on a lovely day. He thought how romantic a setting it was, especially with a beautiful Scottish lassie beside him. Unfortunately, he knew his feelings for her were not returned.
Jessie enjoyed her meal and appreciated the view at least as much as Alex. But, inside, she was struggling. Her feelings for this arrogant American were growing much too fast. She knew from experience how quickly falling for a man inevitably led to disaster.
As the server cleared the dishes, and Alex poured out the last wine, both felt relaxed and content. Neither wanted to break the spell. After a minute, Alex turned and looked Jessie in the eyes. How he loved them!
"Jessie, I'd like to ask you a favor."
Och Laird, Jessie thought, a favour?
"I know we've only known each other a short while, and this may seem forward and personal. However, after sharing this meal, it seems right to ask. But, please don't worry about hurting my feeling if you want to say no."
Shit, he's ettlin tae get in ma pants, after a of twa days kennin me, an buyin me ane lunch. That shud be guid eneuch fer a shag? Guid auld easy Jessie! Even as she thought that, she felt a desire to let him have his way with her. To take her roughly and violently. Shit, shit shit, Jessie! Dinna ye e'er learn!
"So, anyway, I'd like to ask if it would be OK if I called you, Jes, from now on? It just seems more relaxed than Jessie. But only if you don't mind."
Jessie stared at this American in wonder. Could it be true? Could she be in the company of that rarest of all men, rarer indeed than the fabled freshwater mermaids said to inhabit the Gallovidia lochs***? A Gentleman!
"That would be braw." She said in a low submissive voice. “I'll call you Alec.”
She was not completely without regret that he hadn't forced himself upon her.
*The Hound of the Baskervilles - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
**Tales of Gallovidia – Alan Temperley 1979
*** Idem
“The best of the professionals, I think.”*
The drive north through Kenmuir, across the bridge, and on to Johnstoun was quick and uneventful. Alex frequently stole glances at Jessie as she piloted the nimble little car along the country roads. She was so pretty, he thought. Even from the side, her eyes seemed to glow. As was always the case in such circumstances, Jessie detected his stares. Interestingly, she no longer resented them. However, as with most people, especially women, she did worry that he was drawn to some imperfection on her part.
The Johnstoun Police station occupied a part of "The Motte House" on Ayr Road. It was a pleasant-looking place with the blue-on-white, lighted "Police" signs on the street side. Fortunately, a marked police car was parked in front. On the way, Jessie had explained that police stations in Rural Scotland were only occasionally manned. So it was good luck that someone was there.
As they entered, Alex saw behind a low desk, writing on some forms, a police sergeant, undoubtedly the Sergeant Lindsay that Jessie had mentioned. Although Jessie had steadfastly refused to say anything about him besides his name, he was pretty much as Alex had deduced. Late thirties, medium height, average build, looking to be in good shape, his complexion reflected a life spent outdoors even more than his professional duties might require. His neatly trimmed hair and beard were brown with a strong reddish tint. Even sitting, his posture was erect, and his manner showed a man accustomed to dominating those around him. He wore a wedding ring. When he spoke to greet them, his voice was low but surprisingly gentle.
"Miss McTaggert, it is guid tae see you. An wha might your frien be?" Alex thought the word "friend" sounded slightly disapproving.
"Sergeant Lindsay, this is Alex Maxwell, frae Wisconsin in the States. He's of the Stewartry Maxwells, so treat him with the proper respeck," Jessie said with humor in her voice.
"Pleased tae meet you, Mr. Maxwell," said the Sergeant, rising and giving the visitor a firm but not crushing handshake. "Hoo can Police Scotland be of assistance to you?"
"Pleased to meet you as well," Alex replied. "We have come to report two crimes."
"Twa crimes," Lindsay said, looking slightly askance at Jessie. "That will be a certifeeable crime wave aroon here."
"I believe the same person committed both crimes and may well be certifiable himself."
"Well then, please have a seat and tell me aboot it," the Sergeant took out a new form and sat at the desk.
Jessie started, "He broke into my place, twice!"
"Ye ken it was a man?"
"We believe so," added Alex.
"An whit did he tak? Whit was the total value o the goods stolen?"
"Naethin. He didna tak onythin."
"Aye, I see. A vandal. What damage did he dae?"
"Nae damage. Naethin wis takken nor brokken. He didna lave ony trace. I jist ken someone wis in my place!"
"Aye. Noo, Jessie, I dinna mean tae question your story, bit dinna ye see this isna muckle o a polis matter? Jist be carefu tae lock your door, an likely he'll ne'er come back."
"Bit ma door wis lockit, I sweer I did! He picked the lock!" Jessie raised her voice.
"Alree, there, git a hold o yersel. I unnerstaund ye're upset. Bit dinna ye see there isna muckle fer polis tae dae, wi naethin stolen or brokken, nor ony signs o the person?"
"Our concern, Sergeant,' Alex said, placing his hand on Jessie to calm her, "is that it may be part of the other crime we are here to report." The gesture had that effect at first, then she realized the familiar, patronizing gesture and pulled her hand away.
"An whit might be the other crime?" asked Lindsay with more skepticism in his voice as he noticed, disapprovingly, Alex's familiar gesture with Jessie. These Americans are so sure of themselves.
"Kidnapping. Probably multiple kidnappings. This man is abducting young women, and I dread to think of what he may be doing to them!"
"A serial kidnapper. It isna ivery day we hae ane of those in Gallovidia!" Now the skepticism was front and center.
"I understand this seems a bit wild to you. Let me explain what happened to help you understand why I think so."
"Please do," said the Sergeant,."help me unnerstaun." Now his voice was almost dripping with sarcasm.
Alex proceeded to describe his professional background, which didn't seem to impress the Sergeant. He then related his hike in the forest and seeing the man carrying away what he thought was a girl. He explained his deductions and his thought that the criminal may be after Jessie since she'd parked next to him. He was thereby the likely person who broke in.
Sergeant Lindsay was taking a dislike to the brash American, but he was a professional with almost twenty years with the force. He listened carefully and took many notes. When Alex finished, he looked at those for a minute.
"It is a disturbin story, Mr. Maxwell; indeed, it is. Bit ye mun see it frae ma pint o view. You saw somethin at a distance, in the dusk, in the wuids whaur ye were, by yer ain admission, totally disorientated. Ye havna ony physical evidence other than findin a piece o torn claith. I'm sure Jessie here will tell you the thorns in those wuids will tear an entire coat aff in a few minites. Noo, I wud like to credit your experience frae your work. Bit I hae ane major problem wi creditin your claim o serial kidnappins. There are nae missin person reports currently in the whole of Dumfries an Gallovidia. A few dogs and cats, bit nae persons, nae lassies! I dinna ken aboot those frae ither places. Howane'er, it strains ma puir imagination tae believe that your serial kidnapper is snatchin lassies frae ither pairts o Scotlan, nor e'en Englan, an bringin thaim here tae carry through the deep forest."
Jessie stared at the Sergeant. How could he doubt their story? The way Alex explained it, it was so logical. She began to simmer.
Alex, however, reacted far more calmly. After exchanging a few more words with the policeman, he rose and shook his hand.
"We are most grateful that you took your time to listen to our tale, Sergeant. I appreciate your position. Understand that I came here from a duty to report a possible serious crime, even if the facts and evidence were weak."
"An reet ye were, Mr. Maxwell." Lindsay was impressed by Alex's calm acceptance of his rejection and his nearly professional demeanor. "It's niver wrang tae help the polis wi information that may be usefu."
"But Sandy -" Alex noticed her use of the Sergeant's first name, "whit aboot ma place?"
"Jessie, I wudna fash yer bonnie heid aboot yon muckle mair. Probably ane luik aroon an gane. Ye might think o installin a deadbolt or a security chain."
"Thank ye," she said, shaking his hand but sounding offended by the patronizing address.
After they closed the door, Sergeant Lindsay shook his head a let out a low whistle. “Oor Jessie has a solid heed on her shouders,” he thought, “bit yon Yank! The numpty kens hoot toot aboot Gallovidia, he's jist talkin haggis!”
As they got into the car, Jessie let loose. "Whit an offeecious, thrawn, blin bystart!"
"Take it easy; he's just doing his job."
"His job? Why…"
"We will waste our time arguing with him. If I were in his place, I'd say the same."
"D'ye mean there is nae stalker, nae kidnapper?"
"No. But the Sergeant raised a powerful argument: no missing persons. That is very puzzling. How could our man have snatched more than one young woman without any being reported missing? Especially in a quiet, rural area like this? We have to think a little more about this. How about we go somewhere for lunch and brainstorm? I'm buying. You name the place."
"Nae Scot will refuse free meat!" said Jessie with a broad smile, and she put Clio in gear and motored away.
It was only a couple minutes' drive through Johnstoun to The Monk's Cell Inn, an old stone building with four bright red signs on the sidewall and a bigger one on the end, all advertising the pub.
Inside, the Inn was a classic, dimly-lit, Scottish Pub. When Alex saw there was a back terrace, he insisted on eating out there. Though not an outdoor guy, he loved eating alfresco. Jessie, who loved the Scottish countryside, was not opposed.
They were the only ones outside and got a table with a beautiful view. The River Kean (Jessie corrected that it was the Water of Kean) wound in a great bend at the bottom of a gentle slope, blue and slow-moving. The opposite bank was covered down into the water with great green trees.
The cute and pretty waitress with deep brown eyes and brunette ringlets suggested that Alex try the Monk's Cell Beltie - burger, bacon, cheddar cheese, pickled burger sauce, house chips, baby gem & tomato. Jessie explained it was made with Belted Gallovidia beef, which turned out to be those strange cattle he'd encountered on the road. Jessie ordered Devilled whitebait, tartare, crusty bread. At Jessie's suggestion, they shared a bottle of a decent Chardonnay from New Zealand.
While waiting for their food, Jessie entertained Alex with the local folklore of the 'White Snake of Johnstoun.'
She pointed out that the slope along the curving water above the Pub was the remains of the mote of Johnstoun This was a round hill on the east bank of the Water of Kean, between the town and a deep pool known as the boat-weel. The thirty-yard-wide hill had once been a stronghold and a ditch full of water had stretched around it, connecting to the river. Back in the mists of time, a great white snake (a dragon) took possession of the mote, curling its long, scale-protected body completely around the hill and resting its head in the boat-weel and its tail near where they were now sitting. The villagers had to feed it every day with milk and goats or it would come to town and eat a few of them. With all the feeding, the snake grew so that it swallowed most of its meals whole.
One day, the blacksmith, Michael Fleming by name, discovered that the snake had unearthed the body of his just deceased wife and devoured her. This seemed to exhaust his patience and he determined to challenge the bully. He fashioned himself an armor coat studded with knife-sharp blades that erected when he shook. Wearing this protection, he went and confronted the snake.
The snake was sleeping off its latest meal and only awoke when Michael stabbed it under a scale. Annoyed at the prick, it saw the little man and calmly proceeded to swallow him whole. Once inside, the blacksmith flailed around so that his armor knives came out and cut and pierced the snake until killing him. He then took his knife and cut his way out. The villagers came and carried the hero back into town on their shoulders. It is said that some of the snake’s bones still lie at the bottom of Loch Kean, downriver.**
Alex listened to Jessie enthusiastically sharing the heritage of her beloved region. He was fascinated by the folktale and especially the charming girl telling it. In a magical place like this, he could almost believe such a thing happening.
The wine proved tasty, and the food was excellent. Alex enjoyed the fine meal with a splendid view on a lovely day. He thought how romantic a setting it was, especially with a beautiful Scottish lassie beside him. Unfortunately, he knew his feelings for her were not returned.
Jessie enjoyed her meal and appreciated the view at least as much as Alex. But, inside, she was struggling. Her feelings for this arrogant American were growing much too fast. She knew from experience how quickly falling for a man inevitably led to disaster.
As the server cleared the dishes, and Alex poured out the last wine, both felt relaxed and content. Neither wanted to break the spell. After a minute, Alex turned and looked Jessie in the eyes. How he loved them!
"Jessie, I'd like to ask you a favor."
Och Laird, Jessie thought, a favour?
"I know we've only known each other a short while, and this may seem forward and personal. However, after sharing this meal, it seems right to ask. But, please don't worry about hurting my feeling if you want to say no."
Shit, he's ettlin tae get in ma pants, after a of twa days kennin me, an buyin me ane lunch. That shud be guid eneuch fer a shag? Guid auld easy Jessie! Even as she thought that, she felt a desire to let him have his way with her. To take her roughly and violently. Shit, shit shit, Jessie! Dinna ye e'er learn!
"So, anyway, I'd like to ask if it would be OK if I called you, Jes, from now on? It just seems more relaxed than Jessie. But only if you don't mind."
Jessie stared at this American in wonder. Could it be true? Could she be in the company of that rarest of all men, rarer indeed than the fabled freshwater mermaids said to inhabit the Gallovidia lochs***? A Gentleman!
"That would be braw." She said in a low submissive voice. “I'll call you Alec.”
She was not completely without regret that he hadn't forced himself upon her.
*The Hound of the Baskervilles - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
**Tales of Gallovidia – Alan Temperley 1979
*** Idem
Well, what did she expect?
He said: "When I woke up I was just like a madman. I was speaking in a Scottish accent."
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
They say he will need weeks of rehabilitation. In fact, many Scots never recover from their language impediment.