We come up toward the parade ground, neatly compassed by a ring of pavilions and concessions. There’s a big old double-decker bus (blazoned with a Union Jack) that has been converted to a fish-n-chips stand. (We note its enclosed top deck with curtains, hints of homey furnishings in the windows—converted living quarters?) There are concessions for meat pies and bridies, for shish kebabs and sausages and buns, for rich and unScottish-looking desserts. A sign promises scones, but, when I receive one from Allen where I sit in the shade, it turns out to be strawberry shortcake with whipped cream, thawed syrupy strawberries, and costing four dollars!
Other concessionaires sell faces carved in walking sticks. Some sticks are long and peeled, cedar sticks still covered in ragged bark. A face is carved in each, complete with crows feet round the eyes, representing ancient mythological protectors of the forest. Booths sell true woolens, tartans, weaving, glengarries, and cotton runners with homespun mottoes. Here’s a plastic-covered carryall decorated with thistles: petaled purple heads with great prickly ovaries. At the bottom of the bag is a warning—and a welcome. I had been trying to recall the significance of the thistle and now it’s written here in purple before my eyes. Complete with ugly coating of petroleum-based plastic, one of the wonders-run-amuck of our age.
I read somewhere recently that the molecular structure of plastic, a polymer, has been reproduced organically. A good thing, that? Saves petroleum for energy? Ordinary potatoes can be made to yield plastic grains in place of starch grains. The resultant tuber would contain polymers but still look like a potato. It wouldn’t taste or nourish like one but provide a renewable source of plastic plates. Before the organic polymer-potato is commercially sown, some of the bugs will have to be worked out. Things like the inadvertent assimilation of the world’s potato crop, evoking the cataclysm of Kurt Vonnegut’s Ice-9 in Cat’s Cradle. Bees are disinclined to distinguish between polymer potato blooms and starch potato blooms, thus potentially converting whole fields of food into fields of tubular plastic. Who knows what we’ll have at our disposal with more tweaking of our scientific genius? Soon we’ll be growing wax fruit to fill bowls on our coffee tables.
The words on this plastic-coated bag tell of the thistle tradition and its motto. Gardeners, bird-lovers and landscapers may admire the rich coloring of this flower but thistles are elsewhere considered a nuisance and covering of waste places, fit to be yanked and discarded. The motto before me in Latin reads: “Nemo me impune laccessit”. That is, “No one provokes me with impunity.” Or, more fittingly, “Wha duar meddle wi me.” A not inappropriate motto for this prickly plant which is honored for its aid in defeating eighth century Danish raiders. The barefoot invaders’ stealthy nighttime approach was thwarted when thistles growing about the camp brought forth such cries of pain that the sleeping Scots were alerted. It has since been an emblem of guardianship.
Nemo me impune laccessit is a warning whose power to convince is contingent upon the power of the speaker. It’s what renders the motto believable. Today with our glib high-tech weaponry we might find threats of sword and broadaxe borne on bare feet ridiculous or romantic. They belong to an age when every man was a warrior that he might protect his family, community, land. But given the might of our contemporary weaponry we must go beyond the wielding of known armaments to find a speaker worthy enough to fear. We must think big, really big—of prodigiously polluted earth, of mighty yet intricate ecosystems unbalanced, of the once-kindly atmosphere now filled with mountains of carbon, of ultraviolet radiation pouring down on flesh. Think of great Nature when Nature is wronged.
Out of a blue and white pavilion comes the melancholy song of the folk singer. He sings of a berm beside a loch where a young woman stood, long ago . . . bereft but sensing the loving presence of her lost young man. Now the music changes. The singer yields up a rousing song of the Shakers who danced and quaked—to the glory of God. “I am the Lord of the Dance, sang he—dance, dance, whatever ye may be.”
Allen and I move on for our own dance of sorts: a walk along the pitched row where each clan presents its genealogy: names like Kincaid MacBean MacPherson MacThomas Moffat, Hannah and Scot. Names moving with substance inside the mouth. Names to stick a bit in the throat and curl the tongue as they pass out to the listening ear. A roll call of clans, sons of the ancients, whose system dominated Scotland for nearly 700 years. According to The Clans and Tartans of Scotland by Robert Bain, chiefs of these clans took their oaths standing, with both feet upon a stone, promising to preserve the ancient ways. Chanting the noble exploits of their forebears, bards exhorted clan members to “emulate” the example of its past.
Hot asphalt curves round the parade ground and we follow beyond genealogical booths, feeling the heat of this fiery path through the soles of our 20th-century shoes. Here are booths for the handiwork of a bygone age. I can’t help but stop to stare. On the table before me is a fabric of chains. Heavy fabric of metal-work, pieced together a ring at a time. This, then, is chain mail. I slip out a hand, touching it.
A man in ancient garb stands by, ready to instruct us. He takes two tiny rings and spreads one open with pliers, hooks it to another, pinches it closed and picks up a third. This mesh of three is in turn hooked to a fourth. Dimension develops, thickness, like that of the mail lying before me. He knits protection, a quarter-inch ring at a time. I am absorbed, watching his hands.
Also receiving instruction is a sweating and heavily bearded man struggling into some thigh-length chain mail, weighing about thirty pounds. Its maker guides him through a method of donning and doffing. He then tells of the hardy primitive Highlanders who fought naked because they felt forged protection slowed a fighter, robbing him of agility. He offers me chain mail to try on. Grinning I decline.
Now he shows us weaponry. Great two-handed claymores, capable of cleaving plate armor. Round wooden shields were covered in hide and held in place by a pattern of stud-works strapped to the arm; and hidden beneath, a dirk, tightly clenched in the hand of the warrior. Our guide slides a wide double-edged sword from its sheath—crossed-shaped forged steel with blood-gutter running to its hilt.
Allen and I are turned about by the song of approaching pipers. Here come marchers in kilts with staves, standards flapping. Near the head of the parade march our friends, Blaine and Margaret (MacBean), our town historian and his wife. The men wear swinging kilts, sporrans, and glengarries, followed by a multitude of young women pipers in swaying red tartan skirts. Their fingers fly upon chanters, their bright cheeks expel breath into the reed. Elbows pump hard against the bag at their ribs. Sweat soaks them. The skirling and droning pours upon me with the day’s heat like ravishing ointment, setting up a quiver along my sensory pathways toward the person within.
As the bands pass in color and sound, I look over my shoulder to see bearded men at the chain mail booths donning their barbaric gear: helms, battle-axes, arm shields, spears, swords. Some are mantled in animal skin, some skirted and draped in nine yards of tartan. They step off cool turf onto scorching asphalt in bare feet, nothing flinching, and join the parade.
“Look at that!”
But Allen laughs: “They’re warriors, aren’t they?”
It’s a searing summer day. Sun fires down, burning the top of my bare head as we wait in the gathering. Watching and still, crowds compass the parade ground where Highland bands assemble for the opening ceremony of The Games. I done my floppy white hat, stuff my hair under it, relieved at once by cessation of burning. Standing here in the penetrating fire, I can’t help but think of the hole in the high ozone layer . . . especially its dissipation in these higher latitudes where the crown of Maine juts into Canada.
Inert gases produced by the wonders of our age—refrigeration, the space shuttle, aerosols and Styrofoam—ascend to the stratosphere, gobbling up protective ozone by molecular conversion. The great bright hole in the sky pours out radiation, that mighty mutagen, off-cast of our sun’s fusion. Mutagens transform genetic material of skin