A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel | Chapter 1

A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel

by Toby Johnston

Chapter 1

The Relocation Blues

Author's Note: This story was inspired by the Grand Day Out writing challenge. The moment I saw the prompt image; I knew my story belonged against the backdrop of the historic floods in the Texas Guadalupe River basin. I envisioned my protagonist as a young Scottish Scout, Lachlan MacKenzie—a stranger in a strange land—transplanted to Texas much like Hank Morgan in Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court .

They say a story writes itself; in this case, it completely ran away from me. Before I knew it, the manuscript surpassed a hundred pages and I wasn't even close to putting the canoe in the river. After consulting with my editors and advisors, Bensiamin and MJC, I made a tactical decision to split the narrative into two distinct parts:

The challenge story, A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land , which focuses exclusively on the high-stakes events on the Guadalupe River over the 4th of July weekend.
The Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land: Prequel , which—at two hundred pages—is the longest story I've ever written. This prequel begins in Scotland a year before the Guadalupe floods and leads right up to the moment before the boys depart on their grand adventure.

If you haven't read A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land, it would naturally follow this prequel as Chapters 19–22 of the contiguous story.

"Texas?" I stood there, completely floored.

"Texas," Da responded, his smile far too forced to be convincing.

" Texas ? No—no—no !" I pushed back. This wasn't just a move; this was betrayal at its absolute worst.

"Indeed, Texas! You know—oil wells, cattlemen, Indians, The Alamo, rodeos, cowboy hats, huge belt buckles—all that! It'll be a massive adventure, Lachlan. You'll love it. Besides, you'll get to learn a fifth language!"

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. "Fifth? Because Americans don't speak the King's English? But Da, you've left out the best bits: MAGA, Bible-thumpers, the border, and an obsession with football—and not the good kind. And aren't you supposed to pronounce huge without the h like you-know-who ? They're big fans of his down there, you know!"

Da just laughed as if I'd told a cracking rhetorical joke, gave me a dismissive wave to signal the deal was done, and trotted back down the stairs to his home office. I slammed the door behind him—this fight was far from over.

I flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to wrap my head around the upheaval my world was facing. It wasn't that I didn't know a move was coming. I'd just turned fifteen, and this would be my fifth. Every three years, Da moved to a new role within his company. When I was little, I'd worried he kept losing his job. Eventually, I realized he was a fixer —the man the bosses sent in when things had gone wrong.

I was born in Inverclyde, part of Scotland's Silicon Glen. Then it was off to France, just outside Paris; back to Scotland–Dundee this time; then Munich, Germany; and finally, back to Scotland—Edinburgh itself. As a result, I spoke English, Scots, French, and German. It's a wonder I'd managed to maintain my accent, but that's the benefit of being the youngest of three in a household that stayed stubbornly rooted in our own heritage, no matter which embassy or corporate park we were currently orbiting.

I'd been bracing myself all summer. Mum and Da were big on the perks of our nomadic life—multicultural exposure, linguistics, the financial plus to the family bank account. They weren't wrong, but there was a massive downside: every three years, I lost my world. I remember sobbing when we first left Inverclyde and again when we left Paris. I was devastated.

I got self-protective after that. Don't get too close, because it'll just hurt in the end. That became Rule Number One. I made friends, sure; I just didn't make best friends.

Rule Number Two was: Don't be shy and make friends fast. You have to when you're only on a three-year clock. I was never the biggest kid in class, but I was feisty. Some might say belligerent—there's a reason the British Army likes the Scots Guards leading the charge. All those French and German kids knew there was a Scot in their mix from day one. My approach worked; some kids were turned off, but others were intrigued. After a few days, I'd figure out the hierarchy and move to cement my circle.

Then there was Rule Number Three—actually the most important: Pursue Scouting. I am a Scout—Scouts Scotland, to be exact—just like my Da. I'd started as a Squirrel and was hooked from the first meeting. Fortunately, in the digital age, the moves didn't stop my progression. Da had me set up through British Scouting Overseas, the Fédération du Scoutisme Français , and later the Deutsche Pfadfinderschaft Sankt Georg . Both were Catholic organizations, but they were happy to let a heathen Protestant like me sneak into the ranks.

My digital Scout Book was my most prized possession—a digital trail of every badge and expedition from Inverclyde to Munich. To anyone else, it was just a list of requirements, but to me, it was a blueprint. I was bound and determined to become a King's Scout the moment I hit eighteen, exactly as my Da had done.

He was more than just my father; he was my coach. I practically lived by his old Scout Book, treating his original plan like a sacred text. If it was tried and true for him, it was the law for me. I'd already smashed through my Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award last year and pivoted straight into Silver the day I turned fifteen. Texas was a massive wildcard, but I wasn't about to let a little thing like the Atlantic Ocean mess with my schedule.

Texas was not what I'd expected, nor what I'd hoped for. Da had mentioned a few options earlier in the spring, and I'd been privately manifesting Prague, Helsinki, or Amsterdam—places with history, style, and more importantly, a reputation for being gay-friendly.

I'd hit puberty with a vengeance during my second year in Germany. I kept waiting for an interest in girls to spark, but that pilot light never even flickered. Instead, it was the German boys who caught my eye. Especially when they were in lederhosen—those leather shorts did things for their bums that should have been illegal, and the shorter versions offered a spectacular view of muscled legs.

I'd check out any boy in them, but Frederich was my favorite, his bum was exquisite. He always liked to the lead the way on scouting hikes and I was happy to let him; he'd be going on and on about the beautiful mountain view, I had my eyes glued to one matching set of foothill mounds. I may have kept my distance emotionally, abiding by Rule Number One, but from a fantasy perspective, I was always randy. I'd been counting on a move to a progressive city where I could finally trade an imaginary boy for a real one.

Now, it seemed we were headed straight for the American Bible Belt, and I didn't even want to contemplate the bleakness of that possibility. My mental image of the place was a jagged montage of every terrifying documentary I'd ever seen: fire-and-brimstone preachers screaming from mega-church pulpits, dusty towns where the law was a man with a badge and a grudge, and a social scene that likely revolved entirely around Friday night football and judging your neighbor's lawn.

I wasn't exactly worried about the Bible thumping, but as a boy who liked boys, the geography felt like a life sentence without the possibility of parole. A land of oppressive humidity and even more oppressive silence—a place where my true self would have to stay buried deeper than a leathery Iron-Age body in a Highland peat bog. Just like those poor sods, I'd be perfectly preserved but completely breathless, stuck in a dark, airless limbo while the rest of the world moved on above me.

The math of it was what truly gutted me. Three years? That's a bloody eternity. I'd be forced to put my true self into a state of suspended animation—pickled in the tannins of my own silence like that leathery Iron-Age man. I'd be perfectly preserved but completely breathless, stuck in a dark, airless limbo until I was eighteen, while the rest of the world moved on above me. I'd been dreaming of the neon lights of Amsterdam or the chic cafés of Prague; instead, I was being served a plate of grit, God, and guns. It felt less like a massive adventure and more like being sent to a high-security re-education camp where the only thing on the menu was repression.

Time for escapism. I dug into my rucksack and pulled out my current read—Book Four of the Rogues of Drakneth series. It had everything: thieves, assassins, wizards, and unlike Tolkien, it featured some truly scorching gay sex scenes between the protagonists. I read until my eyelids grew heavy and my pulse was thrumming in all the wrong—or right—places. A quick, efficient wank later, I rolled over and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I woke with a smile that lasted exactly three seconds—until I remembered Texas.

Enter the Four Stages of Teen Grief: Delusive Denial, Clandestine Insurgency, Defiance, and Capitulation . Delusive Denial was the easiest first step—ignore the problem until it goes away. Don't laugh; I've found that approach surprisingly effective for a wide range of life's unpleasantries.

But I could smell breakfast, and my stomach was growling a protest. I dragged myself to the shower—the ultimate sanctuary for a teenage boy. And yes, if you're wondering, I launched a whole other set of swimmers down the drain. What can I say? I'm a horny lad.

I arrived at the breakfast table to a spread of scrambled eggs, back bacon, sausages, and potato scones. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought I was being bribed—or perhaps it was a last meal for the condemned before being marched off to the gallows. I half-expected Da to read me my last rites over the orange juice.

I tucked in, determined to ignore the elephant in the room. Not that there was much conversation to ignore; I refused to initiate any, keeping my responses strictly to grunts and the occasional monosyllabic aye . It was the opening gambit of Denial : if I didn't acknowledge the word Texas , perhaps the state would cease to exist. Besides, I was heading out on an overnight that morning. Nothing was going to be resolved for a while, and I held onto the desperate hope that by the time I returned, a more favorable city would have miraculously jumped to the head of the queue.

Within the hour, I had successfully escaped the 'rents. My mate Duncan and his Da picked me up, and we converged at the scout center with four others and our Assessor. Then, we were off.

Destination: Loch Lomond.

The plan was four days and three overnights—canoeing the length of the Loch with a focus on water quality and environmental clean-up for our service task. We'd be pitching different camps each night, moving like a small, tactical unit across the water. It was exactly what I needed: hard physical labor, the bite of the Scottish air, and absolutely no mention of oil wells or cowboy hats.

Canoeing left plenty of time to talk. Too much, as it turned out. Everyone knew the moving van was practically idling at my front door, and speculation among the troop had been rampant. I'd even heard whispers of a betting pool being exchanged during the gear-check.

Duncan launched his interrogation right off the mark, his paddle dipping lazily into the water.

"What's the good word on the next posting? Your Da was supposed to hear this week, right?" he asked, with a look of feigned innocence that didn't fool me for a second.

I sighed, the sound echoing across the flat surface of the Loch. It was exactly the topic I'd come here to escape. "Last night he said Texas. Austin. But I think it's still up in the air—not a hundred percent lock yet. There's still a chance Europe is in the mix."

Duncan's ears pricked up at the scent of blood in the water. "Not a hundred percent? Right. What's the likelihood, then?"

"Ninety-nine percent."

"Ninety-nine!" Duncan snorted, nearly splashing me with his backstroke. "Lachlan, you'd better start shopping for cowboy boots and a Stetson! Get to work on that drawl!"

Then, he launched into a horrific, off-key rendition of Home on the Range , mangling a Texas accent so badly it sounded like he was having a stroke.

"You becoming a cowboy, Duncan?" a voice drifted over from one of the trailing canoes.

"Nae me!" Duncan hollered back, his voice booming off the surrounding hills. "Lachlan is! He's heading to the Lone Star State!"

A chorus of "I win!" and "Damn!" erupted from the other boats.

I just laughed and caught Duncan full in the chest with a heavy splash from my paddle—retribution is a dish best served cold and soaking wet.

"Ach, ya fuckin' poofter!" he screamed, wiping his eyes.

My gut clenched like I'd been knifed. If he only knew, he wouldn't be laughing. Duncan threw that word around like confetti; half the time it was just mindless banter, but the other half, he was dead serious about his vitriol. There was a time, years ago, when I'd harbored a pathetic hope that he might be the boy , but that fantasy had been dismantled long ago.

I didn't have much time to get my knickers in a twist, however, as two other canoes bore down on us in full splash attack mode. We were broadsided on both port and starboard, drenched in seconds. I'd love to claim we gave as good as we got, but that would be nothing but propaganda. As the Roman General Fabius Maximus famously suggested: he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day .

We made for the shore, beached the canoe, stripped off, and dove straight back into the Loch. We were soon joined by the other four for a chaotic session of splashing and wrestling. We took turns ganging up on one another, tossing the victim into the air like a rag doll.

Brushing up against all that taut, teenage flesh, I was soon hard as a rock. But since even the poofter-hater Duncan had managed a stiffy, there was safety in numbers. Eventually, we were all knackered, sprawled out on our towels and letting the sun and the Highland breeze dry our skin.

I'd positioned myself with a strategic view of the others, ostensibly for the conversation, but really for the education. I'd become quite a student of the male form—a self-taught scholar of anatomy. You didn't just have showers and growers; foreskins were an entire sub-field of study. There were the longer ones that puckered at the tip, and the shorter ones like mine, where the glans was always poking out for a look-see. Then there were the balls—big, small, hefty, low-hanging, uptight, or somewhere in between—though I'd noted that the Loch's temperature played a significant role in the topography.

Eventually, our stomachs demanded attention. We pulled on shorts and set about getting the camp in order, soon coaxing an open fire to life. Dinner was a classic scout's stew—meat, vegetables, and stock; all tossed into a pot and left to marry. We kept the fire going long after the sun dipped below the hills, staring into the mesmerizing flames and talking about nothing and everything.

When the chill finally set in, we retreated to the tents. Duncan and I stripped down to our boxer briefs, lying on top of our sleeping bags to escape the lingering humidity.

I wasn't stupid enough to try anything—I'm a belligerent teen, not a suicidal one—but the proximity was a torture I secretly enjoyed. I could feel the radiant heat coming off his skin and catch that distinct, earthy scent of his that I'd grown to like. Our legs brushed a couple of times, though Duncan always shifted away with a restless grunt whenever skin met skin.

I woke once in the middle of the night to find the world had shifted. He'd rolled onto his side, pressed firmly against me, his arm draped over my chest in a heavy, unconscious embrace. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I was hard so fast it actually ached. For a few minutes, I just lay there in the dark, pretending this was my reality instead of a midnight accident.

When I woke again the next morning, the space beside me was cold. I could hear Duncan outside by the fire, the clink of a mess kit signaling he was already roused. Noting that he'd zipped the tent flap back up, I realized I had a narrow window of opportunity to tame my raging morning glory without interruption.

I'm a lad who prefers to be noisy and vocal—I find the acoustics of pleasure quite necessary—but I have become a rather accomplished silent wanker when the situation demands it. I worked quickly and quietly, stowing my damp briefs deep in the recesses of my rucksack. After pulling on fresh shorts, I crawled out to greet the Highlands, making sure to pin back the tent flaps. I needed a stiff cross-breeze to clear out the tell-tale bleachy scent of my morning ritual before Duncan came back for his gear.

Duncan spied me immediately. Holding his iPhone turned makeshift karaoke machine, he bellowed into the crisp morning air: "Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, where the deer and the antelope play…"

As if on cue, the flaps of the other two tents flew open. A chorus of scouts emerged, joining in with far too much enthusiasm for six in the morning: "Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play; where seldom is heard a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day!"

I tried the mature approach—sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting "Lalalala!"—but that only emboldened the choir. They cranked up the volume, adding Indian war whoops and a truly offensive interpretive dance as they reached the verse about the Red River. I eventually resorted to flipping them the double bird, holding it with a stoic, silent dignity until they finally ran out of breath.

As much as I tried to maintain my Delusive Denial throughout the rest of the trip, my compatriots refused to let the dream die. What was truly infuriating wasn't just the singing; it was that every one of them viewed this as the opportunity of a lifetime rather than the cultural and social execution I knew it to be. None of them saw the bars of the cage.

By the time the Highlands faded in the rear-view mirror, and we crossed back into the city limits of Edinburgh, I was done with denial. It was time for a more sophisticated approach.

I was moving swiftly into Stage Two: Clandestine Insurgency .

My resistance cell was kept small by design—minimal chatter, maximum security. It was just me and Bonnie, our Golden Retriever, and she wasn't exactly known for talking to the authorities.

The opening gambit was elegant in its simplicity: no documents, no travel. The family passports were currently resting on Da's desk in the study. A few drops of chicken broth from the fridge, a tactical nudge to the floor, and a bit of encouragement was all it took for Bonnie to abandon her chew toy in favor of a much tastier, government-issued treat.

I made myself scarce and let nature—and canine appetite—take its course. I was safely ensconced in my room when Mum discovered the carnage. Her scream was truly operatic. Being alone gave me just enough time to purge the smirks and laughs from my face before I thundered downstairs to help .

Poor Bonnie was cowering in the corner, wearing an expression of profound, soulful guilt. She gave me a look that clearly said, You put the tasty sauce on the papers, Lachlan; this is a set-up. I felt a sharp pang of remorse for setting her up, but in war, casualties are unavoidable. Confession was not an option. Instead, I feigned total devastation, commiserated with Mum, and casually mumbled that this must surely mean the Texas move was off the table.

I could not have been more wrong.

Within seconds, Mum was on the phone with Da. Within minutes, Da was calling an old classmate of his—an MP who happened to oversee the Home Office. In less than a week, we were marched to the passport office to meet an infuriatingly helpful functionary. She assured us they would move heaven and earth to replace the documents most expeditiously, prattling on about all the other toddler Rembrandts and washing machine casualties she'd seen.

The endeavor didn't set the move back by a single iota. The only one who benefited was Bonnie; my lingering guilt meant she received a steady stream of treats and table scraps. I was picking up some truly harrowing poops, but she was a happy girl.

With the Biological Shredder plan a bust, I pivoted to Plan B of Clandestine Insurgency: The Diplomatic Front . I called Rhona and Magnus, expecting us to form a Churchillian coalition against the overwhelming Austin-machine. I was prepared to lead the charge, declaring that we would fight them on the beaches of Loch Lomond, we would fight them in the streets of Edinburgh, and we would never surrender our right to a decent climate and accessible public transport.

The results, however, were less Dunkirk and more Total Collaboration .

I quickly realized I wasn't talking to allies; I was talking to quislings. My siblings weren't looking for a fight; they were practically handing over the keys to the city to the invading forces.

Rhona was already mentally across the Atlantic, lobbying to join the move so she could enroll at UT Austin. She spent twenty minutes acting like a teenage Lord Haw-Haw, broadcasting the virtues of Greek life and SEC football as if she'd been brainwashed by a mid-range Hollywood teen flick. She didn't want to fight on the beaches; she wanted to tan on them.

Then came Magnus. From the hallowed halls of King's College, he gave me a pompous lecture on strategic career milestones and the necessity of international exposure that made me want to strike him from the rolls as a brother. He was the worst kind of collaborator—the intellectual one. He ended the call by claiming he was actually jealous I'd be attending an American high school, effectively signing my deportation papers with a smile.

My coalition had collapsed before the first meeting. I was standing alone on the ramparts, a one-man resistance, while my siblings were busy checking the exchange rate and looking up cowboy chic on Pinterest.

I briefly considered the Burn the Boats strategy—committing a felony, getting expelled, or perhaps tattooing a map of the Highlands across my face—but those felt antithetically opposed to my King's Scout ambitions. I needed a cleaner strike. My late-night research led me to a much more elegant solution: Denial of Entry .

The US Department of Homeland Security had been making a lot of noise about scrutinizing social media footprints. They were reportedly denying entry to anyone deemed to have an unacceptable digital presence.

Challenge accepted.

I intended to walk a sophisticated tightrope: becoming utterly radioactive to the Americans while remaining just palatable enough for the UK government and Scouts Scotland. As it turned out, that wasn't a tightrope at all; it was a broad, tree-lined avenue of controversy. Climate change, immigration, NATO, Russia, the Middle East—I became a one-man signal jammer for every hot-button issue on the planet. I even found some surprisingly high-quality Lego propaganda out of Iran that I reposted with a flourish.

I worked for hours, eyes stinging from the blue light, watching the likes and reposts from various global bots begin to trickle in. I went to sleep feeling like a digital Che Guevara.

I bounced out of bed the next morning, snickering with anticipation. I settled into my chair, eager to see the wreckage of my reputation—surely by now, I was on a dozen watchlists and officially persona non grata in the Lower 48.

I started clicking. Then clicking again.

There was nothing.

The most recent post on my feed was a wholesome, soul-crushing photo of our trash collection at Loch Lomond. My unacceptable presence—the memes, the Lego insurgents, the geopolitical manifestos—had vanished. It was as if my midnight revolution had been wiped from history by a digital eraser. I searched every cached corner of my profile, but the insurgency had been neutralized.

I spent twenty minutes frantically trying to trace the digital murder of my insurgency, but the silence on the screen was absolute. My revolution hadn't just been suppressed; it had been deleted.

When Mum called me to breakfast, I knew it was over. I began a slow, rhythmic descent that felt less like a trip to the kitchen and more like the Les Mis somber funeral procession for the fallen students of the Lamarque rebellion. No triumphant reprise of Do you hear the people sing ?; only the hollow, bone-deep thrum of the marche funèbre .

I trudged downstairs to help set the table, moving with the heavy, obedient gait of the defeated. The last survivor of a failed uprising, carrying the cutlery like it was the heavy, leaden remnants of a broken barricade. Every clink of a spoon against the porcelain felt like a final, mournful tolling bell.

Da was at the head of the table, buried in work documents. He didn't even look up as I set the butter dish down.

"It's not going to work, you know," he said quietly.

"What's not going to work?" I asked, trying to summon a look of confusion to mask the hot prickle of guilt.

"Your anti-American propaganda campaign. Trying to get yourself declared persona non grata and denied entry. That is the objective, correct? Or have you had a sudden, profound geopolitical awakening in the middle of the night?"

"Are you in favor of the policies of the current Administration?" I shot back, deciding to double down on the wreckage.

I was met with a look so stern and hardened it felt like a physical barrier. Da took a deep breath, his professional composure returning like a suit of armor. "I'm not taking a political position, for or against. We are agnostic. And we—including you—are going to remain that way. You will cease and desist on the political postings. Understood?"

I nodded, my chin sinking toward my chest. The fire was out. The resistance had been routed.

He set aside his papers, his face softening into the expression he usually reserved for high-stakes negotiations. "Look, Lachlan. I know you're not happy. But this is a tremendous opportunity—for the family, and for you. The Austin operation is the largest in the company with the most growth potential. The leaders who run it successfully go on to become CEO. That translates to opportunity for everyone in this house."

I nodded again, though my stomach felt hollow. I wasn't feeling particularly proud. In my attempt to be a rebel, I'd drifted dangerously far from the Scout Law. I hadn't been Trustworthy, Loyal, or Helpful . I'd just been a nuisance.

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