A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 6
The Towering House Clan Gauntlet
The next morning, it was back to school. Hank was waiting for me on his usual bench out front—same as always. Except it wasn't.
The way our eyes locked was different. The smiles were deeper. Even the greeting had shifted; the standard, casual fist bump had been replaced by a quick, intense hug hello. I knew our whole relationship had changed; I could feel it vibrating in my chest. And I knew, without a single doubt in my mind, that Hank felt the same.
We moved through our classes and cross-country practices, reveling in every shared glance and every discrete touch, yet we were both operating with extreme caution. We couldn't risk exposing the shift to the classmates and teachers around us. Eyes were everywhere.
I was still being plagued by an army of Paige's intrigued by my smart accent, though I'd discovered I had been a bit too hasty in lumping them all together as Model 1 prototypes. They weren't all cut from the same mold. Some were clearly on my intellectual par—probably higher—and they actually made History and Geometry fun. Others were clearly seeking mates on a social level that had nothing to do with the Best Mate bond I shared with Hank. I even found myself tutoring a few in German and French, playing the role of the sophisticated European scholar to perfection while my heart was secretly miles away.
That Saturday was the Big Event: meeting Hank's grandmother, The Clan Amá Sání.
She was the Clan Mother, the anchor for his entire family. I was excited, yet insanely nervous. I felt like I was about to be forced to run the gauntlet like Daniel Boone in the old movies! Hank kept telling me to calm down and not worry, but he was a terrible liar. I could sense he was as nervous as I was—maybe more.
That morning, we rode out to the family compound in Hays County with his mom and dad. It was the local seat of the Towering House Clan—the Kinyaa'áanii. Their homes and small-hold farms were all clustered around the main house, spreading out along the four points of the compass.
"It's not technically a reservation," Hank explained as we climbed out of the car and stood on the rise where his grandmother's house sat. "The Navajo Nation is about nine hundred miles that-a-way," he pointed west. "Most of it's in Arizona, spanning into New Mexico and up into Utah. Twenty-seven thousand square miles."
My jaw dropped, and I let out a low whistle. "That's the size of all of Scotland. So how did your family end up all the way over here? War party get lost?"
That earned me a sharp punch in the arm. "Nope. Great-granddad Yazzie—the Code Talker I told you about. Like I said, things weren't great in Arizona back then. One of his best buddies from the Marines lived here in Austin—part of the Marsh family, big oil money. They'd fought side-by-side the whole war; Yazzie even saved the guy's life. Marsh wanted him to come work for the family business, so he did."
I gazed out at the landscape of houses spiraling out from the Clan Mother's home. "He started all this?"
"He and his kids—all fifteen of them. You combine a World War II vet with an Irish-Catholic nurse wife, and you get a lot of kids," he smirked. "They were their own private Baby Boom."
I winced, silently thanking God I was a boy and gay. "Poor Great-grandma Yazzie. She must have been pregnant for more than a decade straight."
"Yazzie did well with Marsh Oil, and he was a sharp investor," Hank said, pointing out landmarks in the distance. "He bought up big plots of land all through this part of Hays County, back when Dripping Springs was just a post office and a dream. He wanted a contiguous compound so he could keep his little clan together."
I started doing the generational math. "So those fifteen got married and had their own kids... Amá Sání must have a literal army of siblings and cousins."
Hank giggled. "Yep. Seventy-odd. Between me and my second and third cousins, we're somewhere in the low two hundreds. And the next generation is already starting."
I just shook my head, overwhelmed by the scale of it. "I guess that makes for a pretty decent war party if you ever need one."
I stood there, looking at the array of homes under the vast Texas sky, realizing that I was about to face a hierarchy just as old and formidable as anything in Edinburgh—if not more. Twain's Morgan might have felt like a boss in King Arthur's court, but as I looked at the sprawling strength of the Towering House, I realized I was deep in someone else's land.
Time to meet the matriarch.
Amá Sání's house wasn't just a home; it was a monument. Yazzie had built it in the early fifties—a massive, two-story sprawl of dark cedar logs and heavy limestone that looked like it had been birthed directly from the hillside. It was a rambling thing, with wings and porches jutting out at odd angles as if the house itself had tried to keep pace with his fifteen children. Standing there, looking at the silvered wood and the deep shadows of the wraparound porch, you could feel the weight of the Marsh Oil money and the Navajo grit that had stacked every log.
I had spent the entire week building a mental profile of Hank's Amá Sání, but my intelligence gathering couldn't have been more wrong. I'd imagined a towering, fierce warrior queen who would look down on me and peel back my defenses layer by layer with a single, intense glare. I was prepared for a figurative running of the gauntlet, braced for a harsh judgment that would determine my very survival in this new world.
Instead, the door opened to reveal a sweet, smiling lady, small in stature and dressed in traditional Navajo garb that seemed to radiate a quiet, unshakeable dignity.
As she welcomed us and ushered everyone inside, the breath I'd been holding finally hissed out of me and I felt the tension in my shoulders begin to dissolve. I was immediately struck by the undeniable echoes of Hank in her face—the same striking, carved features, the same graceful, effortless way of moving. Most of all, she had those eyes: intense, yet profoundly welcoming. Her voice was soft and nurturing, a soothing contrast to the nervous static in my head.
It was as clear as any biological map: the grandson had been derived, heart and soul, from his grandmother.
Sweet and gracious though she was, the Amá Sání was clearly in charge. We started with several minutes of pleasantries, but with a shift so subtle I didn't quite catch the transition, the atmosphere changed. Directions and orders to the troops began to be issued at a rate and pace that would have made General Patton weep with envy—or completely overwhelmed the French High Command, take your pick.
Hank's parents were dispatched to the kitchen for food prep. Hank himself was ordered to take the high ground of the grill out back to get the charcoal going and set the table. There was some mention of others arriving later, but the details eluded me as the Clan Mother tucked her arm into mine and whisked me off to a stunning screened-in porch.
What I first mistook for a chaotic wildflower garden was quickly revealed to be a sophisticated laboratory. She waved me toward a chair, and before I could process the change in scenery, I found myself with a heavy stone mortar in my lap and a pestle in my hand.
She glided about the room with the silent, liquid grace of a red deer moving through the Scottish heather. One moment she was by my side, and the next, she had drifted to the far wall, her small hands plucking leaves and stems with a precision that was almost supernatural. She didn't make a sound, but she moved with the absolute confidence of a creature that owned every inch of the forest.
I was too stunned to move at first, but she made it clear with a sharp, expectant nod that I was to start grinding.
I immediately recognized the earthy, sharp scent of sage—the same scent from the smudging ritual that Hank had done in our tent. I was fairly certain I smelled tobacco, and I let out a violent sneeze when I started on what was obviously cayenne. A host of other, unknown herbs went into the mix, their scents blooming into a thick, medicinal cloud around us.
It was probably a good fifteen minutes before she decided the consistency met her standards. She sat down beside me, her presence radiating a calm, ancient authority. She took the mortar from my lap, set it on the low table between us, and leaned in to inspect my work.
I waited. Breathless.
Then I saw the twitch of a smile, even though her gaze was still focused on the crushed herbs. "You have a Gentle Spirit, a soft touch," she noted softly. "Just like Mąʼiitsoh. So many boys think they need to pulverize the herbs, bruising them instead of gently crushing them."
I must have looked utterly lost. My brain scrambled to categorize the sounds, but they didn't fit into any European root I knew. "Excuse me Ma'am, what's a... Ma-he-so?"
She looked up then, and I saw a version of the clever poodle look I'd received from Paige back at school—that head-tilted curiosity—but the grandmother's version was tempered with a deep, maternal sympathy. "Not what, but who. Hank is Mąʼiitsoh. That is his Diné name."
I rolled the word over my tongue, trying to catch the nasal tone and the subtle glottal stop. I wanted to get it just perfect; to honor the weight she gave it. As we moved into a whole new series of maneuvers—mixing the herbs into jojoba oil and straining gestating jars through cheesecloth—she gave me gentle course corrections.
"Mąʼ-ii-tsoh," I'd whisper, my hands busy with the oil.
"Better," she'd murmur, plucking a fresh jar for the warming pot.
I felt like I was participating in one of Mum's cooking shows—the kind where they slide a dish into the oven only to turn around and pull a finished version out of a second one. But as the name began to feel natural in my mouth, I realized I wasn't just learning a word. I was being given a secret passage into who Hank really was.
When the operation was complete, she handed me a small, finished jar. She laughed gently at my confused expression.
"This is my secret salve," she noted. "Hank tells me you are very fond of it and are quickly running out."
I think I turned fifty shades of red. I didn't just feel the heat burning on my face; I felt a searing heat burning on my whole other set of cheeks. She knew about the horse ride; she knew about the rubdowns.
She knew.
Under the weight of her knowing smile, my sophisticated European reserve completely collapsed. She may have moved with the grace of a red deer, but in that moment, I was the deer caught in the headlights.
She sat me back down and gave me a gentle, grounding pat on the knee. "No need to be embarrassed, Lachlan. I am very happy that you and Hank have become so close. Boys need close friends they can truly trust." She looked toward the screen door where the smell of cooking meat wafted in. "Hank has been a different boy since the two of you met—happy, shining, confident. This is why I wanted us to meet. I needed to understand for myself who this boy was...the one who has such an effect on my beloved grandson."
Then she sat back, angling herself toward me with an air of quiet expectation. "Now, Lachlan, tell me about yourself. Your hopes, your dreams, what drives you?"
That was a question I could answer. My embarrassment was quickly shoved aside as I launched into my disciplined plan for the King's Scout. It was the perfect canvas over which to lay the map of my life—the travels, the sports, the endless hours of study. I found myself speaking for a good thirty minutes, my reserve completely dissolved. She listened with a stillness that was magnetic, nodding encouragingly and never interrupting until I finally paused to catch my breath.
"The Warrior Spirit is also very strong in you," she observed, her voice carrying a weight of ancient certainty. "Did you know that the Diné people have a deep tradition of long-distance running? For us, it is not just a sport. It serves as a spiritual practice—a form of prayer, and a method for developing endurance, resilience, and discipline."
I looked at her, the parallels striking me like a lightning bolt. My scouting and their running weren't different paths at all; they were the same challenge, just viewed from different perspectives of the world.
I nodded, my voice steadier than it had been all day. "I think you're right. This Warrior Spirit seems to capture everything I've strived for in the hills of Scotland—self-reliance, the Be Prepared mantra, endurance, and a quiet grit. It's all mirrored here in Texas."
She gave me a knowing look, her eyes searching mine. "But you must not neglect, or hide, your Gentle Spirit, Lachlan. You must recognize it, acknowledge it, and embrace it. Find the balance between the Gentle and the Warrior. This is the challenge Mąʼiitsoh also faces— you are the same."
"Balance," I contemplated, my mind drifting to the philosophy texts I'd pored over back in Edinburgh. "So, like the Aristotelian Mean? Seeking the Golden Mean between two extremes?"
She tilted her head—the clever poodle again, but this time it felt like an equal acknowledging a peer. "I'm impressed, young scholar. Yes, it is quite the same. I am always taken with how these parallels appear around the world—the Greeks, the Diné. We are all trying to walk the same line."
I didn't feel so much like an alien in a strange land anymore; I was a student learning a new dialect of a language I already spoke.
With that, she popped up with an agility that completely belied her age. "I have much enjoyed our discussion, Lachlan! We must continue this another time—next weekend, I think. For now, would you be so kind as to go assist Mąʼiitsoh with the grilling? I must attend to the kitchen."
It wasn't a request; it was an order, but one that I was more than happy to execute.
I headed out the side door of the porch to find Mąʼiitsoh. It wasn't a difficult reconnaissance task; I simply followed the trail of woodsmoke and the rich, intermingled scent of charcoal and searing steak. I rounded the house to see Hank manning not one grill, but two—grilling enough meat to feed a small army.
Even while performing the mundane task of grilling, he looked sexy—the way his shoulders flexed as he turned the meat, his hips swaying just a little from side to side, making his bum flex against the faded denim of his jeans.
I sidled up next to him, trying to sound casual. "That's a lot of meat, Hank. Are the five of us really going to eat all that? Your Amá Sání must eat like a horse!"
Hank snorted, not looking away from a particularly stubborn rib-eye. "She's special, but I don't think that kind of consumption is in her quiver. Umm...there might be a few others coming for lunch."
"A few others? Like how many?" I wasn't letting him off the hook that easily.
"Just ten, maybe fourteen—some aunts, uncles, and cousins."
I nearly choked on the smoky air. "And you didn't think you should let me know that in advance?"
"You were so wrapped around the axle on meeting Amá Sání and the whole gauntlet worry," he said, giving me a contrite look. "I thought I'd spare you the additional stress. Besides, she's the important one—the Clan Mother. The other guests are important to me, but not like her. If you pass with her, you're in."
Well, he was spot on. I couldn't argue with that logic. "Okay, all's forgiven," I muttered, stepping in to give him a quick, firm hug around the waist.
"So?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"So, what?" I played dumb, a little bit of petty payback for the surprise guests.
"So how did your discussion go with Amá Sání?"
I shrugged my shoulders with forced indifference. "Okay, I guess. She seems cool." I reached out, snagging a small piece of crispy meat off the edge of the grill and popping it into my mouth.
"Arrrrgh!" Hank groaned, waving a pair of tongs at me. "You know there's desert right out there? I'm not above staking you out on an ant hill with honey all over your privates!"
"That's just dime-store folklore, isn't it?" I laughed, leaning back out of reach. "Besides, I'm your Best Mate —that's against the Geneva Convention, the Scout Handbook, and the Best Mate Guide!"
"Please," he capitulated, his eyes searching mine, genuinely wanting to know if his two favorite people had actually clicked. "Just tell me."
I still needed to torture him just a little, so I slowly teased out the intel. "She likes my Warrior Spirit. We talked about the link between scouting, our cross-country runs, and the Diné spiritual tradition of long-distance running."
Hank nodded, flipping a steak and looking about as interested as if I were reciting geometry theorems. "And?"
"And…let's see… umm… oh, there was something about balance. What was that again?" I drew out a long, theatrical pause. "Oh, right. I need to find the balance between my Warrior Spirit and my Gentle Spirit. Just like Mąʼiitsoh."
His eyes lit up instantly. He dropped the tongs and grabbed me around the waist, twirling me around in a circle. "Yes! I knew it! I told her you had a Gentle Spirit! Did she really say just like me?"
"She did," I laughed, dizzy from the spin. "And when were you going to tell me your name is Mąʼiitsoh?"
Hank's expression shifted to Contrite Look Number Two. "I've been meaning to. I just couldn't find the right moment—one that wasn't going to interrupt our other right moments." He stuck his hand out, formal and sincere. "Henry Hashkeh Mąʼiitsoh Allen. Nice to meet you. It means Fierce Wolf, but most people just call me Hank."
Fierce Wolf," I repeated, the name feeling powerful in my mouth. "I love it. Lachlan Alexander MacKanzie of the Clan Mackenzie, nice to meet you! Lachlan means Warrior from the land of the fjords. Vikings used to raid the Scottish coast all the time, so I suppose I have a bit of a marauder in my DNA. Can I get a Navajo name? Are there any cool names for blond, pale-white Viking warriors?"
Hank shook his head, his smile fading into something more somber. "You don't want to go there, Lachlan. Most of the Diné names for white guys aren't too flattering—greedy, inept, liars. There's some heavy history there."
I stared into the glowing hot coals, the weight of his words settling over us. I thought about the Amá Sání's screened-in porch and the medicine we'd made. "She said you and I have the same challenge. Balancing those two sides of ourselves...not to ignore or hide the Gentle part, but to embrace it. She wants me to come back next week to talk more. Actually, I think she ordered me to."
Hank turned to me, the firelight catching the tears welling in his eyes. He reached out and pulled me into a fierce, crushing hug. "I love you so much," he whispered.
Happily half-smothered against his chest, I nodded and mumbled the same.
The lunch with the small army turned out to be somewhat anticlimactic compared to the intensity of the porch and the intimacy of the grill. By the time we all sat down at the long picnic tables overlooking the compound, I was emotionally drained. I had run a gauntlet —even if it was a figurative one of herbs and ancient stares—and I had survived.
Hank and I were stationed at the far end of the table with the cousins, a boisterous mix of ages that provided a steady stream of Hank stories that I filed away for future leverage. At the opposite end, the Amá Sání sat with Hank's parents. Though she was a world away in the hierarchy of the table, we made frequent eye contact. Each time she looked at me, it felt less like an inspection and more like a shared secret. It felt like home.
Back at school the following Monday, we were hurtling towards the Thanksgiving break. Shorts had given way to chinos; no jeans allowed at Saint Luke's. Midterms had been held early in November; my French had come back to me much faster than I'd expected and, with Hank's help, my Spanish was finally taking off. Hank and I hit a Boundary Six —or a grand slam home run, as he put it—on our joint presentation for the Revolutionary War in Schneider's class. Being able to tie in our respective ancestors from the Green Mountain Boys and the Royal Greens made that a lock.
Our weekends settled into a predictable, sacred rhythm: Scouts on Saturday, the Allen compound on Sunday. We were both busy as hell, but tracking against our Eagle Scout-King's Scout strategic plan with a military cadence and precision. As directed, we were back at the compound every weekend between that first meeting and the holiday. Amá Sání was clearly leading us on a journey, helping us navigate the tricky terrain of finding our balance.
Our Sundays became a ritual. We'd work in her lab on the porch; our hands stained with the juices of plants I was slowly learning to name. Then we'd move to her garden, where she cultivated the herbs that couldn't survive the wild Texas brush. It was backbreaking work, and the whole time—whether in the lab or the garden—the Amá Sání led a continuous discussion. Pauses from work were expected when you were contemplating or delivering an answer. I likened it to the Socratic Method; she seemed quietly amused by the comparison.
Hank and I didn't mind the labor, especially out in the garden. It was just as much of a workout as a cross-country practice, just with different muscles being tortured. We went through a lot of salve—Hank enjoying the applications as much as I did. Not to mention the added benefit of watching Hank at work in the dirt. Clad only in jeans, no shirt, sweating under the relentless sun with his muscles flexing as he drove the shovel into the earth. It certainly made it easier for me to embrace my Gentle Spirit.
He caught me looking all the time, a slow grin spreading across his face. But then, I'd catch him watching me too. We weren't trying to hide it anymore; the nature of our bond had definitely shifted. Under the watchful, approving eye of the Amá Sání, we were finally learning how to just be.
It felt like we were building toward a dénouement in our relationship—a final alignment of the Warrior and the Gentle Spirits. A crescendo of all those stolen glances, sweat-slicked hours in the sun, whispered words, and careful touches. We weren't sure exactly what form that union would take, but the air between us had grown thick with a beautiful, heavy electricity. Whatever was coming, we were no longer just ready for it; we were hungry for it. And the closer we got, the more I realized that the impact was going to be the most wonderful thing I'd ever experienced.
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