Chapter 19: Once Upon a Castle

“It looks like a big chunk of cold water to me,” Peter said, eyeing a large map of the UK, North Sea, Netherlands, Denmark, and Norway. An arrow pointed to Iceland in the upper left corner. The map came in a parcel with letters, documents, photos, and a worn booklet titled “12th Century Scottish Castles,” with dog-eared pages. Also in the box was a handwoven scarf of reddish-brown wool. Peter admired it briefly, then set it aside with several flat cans of kippers and caviar labeled in Scandinavian characters. The map was spread out on Lenna’s dining table, with his cell phone lying nearby on speaker.

The house buzzed with activity from visitors and kids doing assorted chores. It was Wednesday, December 18th, and Saturday’s Winter Solstice—a sacred holiday for most Native American tribes—loomed. The Apache reservation was preparing for a big celebration honoring the last harvest, sunlight, and ancestral traditions Peter struggled to grasp. Even Kathy joined the frenzy, representing her heritage by importing 50 salmon from Pike Place Market to be traditionally prepared with cedar planks and woven stakes. The living room contained boxes of streamers, colorful banners, and pinyon pine branches, giving the house a forest scent.

“There are literally hundreds of small islands scattered along the north shore,” Alistair replied.

“And damn near every one of them has a bloody castle or three,” Monty chirped in. “They were troubling times back then. You had to look over your shoulder fishing for cod, never knowing when a boatload of Norman raiders would pop out of the fog, waving axes at you.”

Peter grinned up at Kathy as she rubbed his shoulders. She mouthed some words to the gathered people, then patted his head and skipped to their room. Seconds later, she returned with a photo album, setting it before Nana Shima. She opened it to their Hawaiian vacation pictures, pointing to one of the Quinten brothers holding her laterally in a tiny bikini. Peter lounged in the sand nearby, wearing a mask and snorkel with prosthetic fins—holding a large yellow fish with blue lines running down its side. A spear gun lay in the sand before him.

Peter laughed when she pointed it out to the gathered people. Grandma Clearwater was not impressed and muttered something foreign as she sipped her coffee.

“What’s so funny?” a heavy English accent chirped over his phone.

“Nothing,” he snorted and explained the setting. After refilling her cup, Lenna took a break and sat beside the ancient woman. Charity went outside to oversee the preparations of the deer and elk for the feast. She waited impatiently for the okay to play records on Kathy’s turntable again—once the phone call ended.

“Ah, lovely Katherine,” Alistair sighed. “My heart flutters at the thought of your beauty.”

“Ah, you wily flatterers,” Kathy cooed as she wormed into Peter’s lap and pored over the map. “Where’s this island?”

“Look north of the Scottish shoreline,” Alistair instructed. “You’ll see a red circle east of the Isles of Orkney.”

She traced her finger to the spot. “Got it.”

“That is the Isle of Netter,” he stated. “And right smack in the middle is Castle Corcoran.”

Peter held up several 8x10 black and white photographs of the ancient structure. “It’s seen better days,” he remarked. “Who built it?”

“Polton of Clan McGivern. He began it in 1470 but never finished. The region was caught up in a turbulent affair that caused the island and many others to change hands for a while.” Monty answered. “Turns out, he was a right bastard who made freely with the peasants and took many young lasses to his bed. He was dragged out of his castle in his nickers and drawn and quartered ... by red Northies.”

Curious stares around the table. Peter bit, “And what, pray tell, is a red Northie?”

“Ah, that’s one of the reasons we were drawn to the place,” Monty continued. “It’s a special sheep that only lives on a few islands. They’re a crossbreed between the hearty old Cotswold—that’s been around since Roman times—and a dark Hebridean. They’re famous worldwide for their wool.”

“Check out the scarf,” Alistair added.

He didn’t have a chance because several curious women promptly snatched it from the table, touching it studiously before passing it around.

“Wow!” Kathy chimed a second later, “It feels soft as air.”

“This is good wool,” Nana Clearwater agreed, “There’s nothing like it around here.”

“I’m sorry,” Monty quipped, “Who is speaking?”

Peter introduced the ancient woman, and the twins lavished her with introductory praise.

“So, this wool is rare?” Kathy asked as she draped the scarf around the old woman’s neck and kissed her cheek. Nana Clearwater patted her hand affectionately, gripping the cloth possessively and daring anyone to take it.

“Exceedingly, but what is especially unique about the red Northie is that they are shorn twice a year due to the cold winter climate and the particular care they receive from the farmers who raise them,” Alistair said.

“It’s so coveted that your Hudson Bay Company uses a thirty percent blend in their famous blankets, for which they charge 900 quid a pop,” Monty mused.

Peter frowned, “My Hudson Bay? Dude, that’s a Canadian company.”

“Same side of the pond, mate.”

A cold draft blew in as Charity burst back inside, her cheeks rosy from the winter air.

“Okay,” Kathy pondered. “So, we’re looking at a small island with a broken-down castle built by a Scottish asshole and a herd of red sheep—”

“Wait ... wait ... wait,” Peter interrupted. “I want to know more about how they used sheep to rip this poor dude in half. Aren’t they supposed to use horses for that?”

“‘Quartered’, you simpleton! Seriously, Peter, get your vernacular straight,” Allistair chided. “And they didn’t have horses, so they had to make do. Seriously, man, don’t disparage the peasant class for working with what they had.”

“But how?” he insisted. “You’re killing me here. Sheep? Ripping a man limb from limb?”

“How should I know? Maybe they used big surely Rams and tantalized them with lovely ewes.”

“And you call us ‘savages,’” Charity retorted from the other side of the table. “We just scalped our enemies.” She picked up a can, “What’s this?”

“Who might we be speaking to?” Alistair asked.

“That is Charity,” Kathy replied, beaming. “My baby sister from another mister.”

Once again, the twins lavished eloquent praise for the girl, making her blush.

“And she’s holding a can of ... fish.”

“Oh, not just any fish, Lass,” Alistair replied. “Those are some of the finest Glyngore-style smoked kippers.”

“In mustard sauce,” Monty added.

“Eww!” the girl groused and pushed the can away disgustedly.

“I’ll second that,” Pete snorted.

“You yanks don’t appreciate the finer things in life!”

“So, these sardines are canned on Netter Island?” Peter’s girlfriend interjected from his lap.

A heavy sigh on the other end gave the girl a devilish grin.

“They’re ‘Kippers,’” Monty moaned. “Like I’d feed sardines to a cur ... And it is pronounced ‘Isle Netter,’ please Katherine, you’re tarnishing your elegance.”

Peter began shuffling through the documents while Alistair cut in.

“Besides fine wool, the Isle of Netter is renowned for its Kippers and North Sea Caviar, which is caught, processed, and canned in the tiny fishing village on the Southern shore.”

Peter tuned out the conversation while reading the financial disclosures and legal documents regarding the proposed purchase. He set aside a sealed envelope marked ‘sensitive.’ He pursed his lips while studying the charts indicating the castle boundary, accompanying township, and fishing village.

“Hey guys, not trying to butt in ... but I can’t make heads or tails of this property disclosure. There are no survey reports, coordinates, or ... anything.” He turned back through the stack of documents. “Have you sent any of this to Maggy?”