A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 13
Scotland Invades the Texas Asylum
Texas spring was on us before we knew it, the weather turning pleasantly, as opposed to oppressively warm. Hank and I were living in shorts; and losing our shirts whenever we could get away with it. I was actually getting tan, or at least I thought so. Hank was always eager to show me that his palest parts were darker than my tannest; and I was equally eager to look closely to verify—purely for scientific accuracy, of course.
We were both doing Track and Field for our spring sport—the sixteen-hundred and thirty-two-hundred-meter events--those distances played to our strengths. The hundred-meter dash, shot-put, and discus, not our strengths, those were the domain of Jack, Jack Williams the wanker, Jack Williams our teammate.
Jack and several of his fellow football gods trained for the fall in the explosive power events of the spring. It led to a weird dynamic, a grudging respect, I guess. Coach made us feel the pain of our teammates. Jack and crew left us in the dust when we had to try the hundred and two-hundred-meter dashes; but we left them wheezing and doubled-over a quarter of the way through our long-interval runs. There's a specific kind of satisfaction in watching a God run out of oxygen.
A combination of Scouts and track were going to the games at mid-April—the Texas Highland Games and Celtic Festival to be exact, right here in Austin. Jack and his crew had been talking smack for the past two weeks—how they were going to show me, the Scot, how it's done. I tried to ignore them; it was getting under my skin—but the odds of my putting on thirty more pounds of muscle in a week were low. At least I had my Hank to keep me grounded, and to help me practice. I hadn't even thought about a caber, let alone touched one, since leaving Scotland.
We'd started a month before the Games. Hank and I drove out to Amá Sání 's to meet his Uncle Desmond, the woodworker. Together, we picked three cedar trees from the dense copse behind the sweat lodge and hogan. That's all a caber is, really—a raw tree trunk, felled and stripped of its bark. We left one end thick and heavy, while the other was tapered down until I could cup it comfortably with my palms. We built a trio: the Qualifier, the Ranking, and finally, the Challenge. Each one longer and heavier than the previous.
I'd don my sport kilt and throwing cleats and drill for hours. Sometimes I'd focus purely on the Pick —the brutal lift from the ground to the shoulder. Then I'd add the Run, finding my center of gravity while balanced with a literal tree. Finally, I'd work the full routine through the Pull, that split-second snap where you launch the caber end-over-end.
In the Highland Games, distance is irrelevant. It's all about the clock face. You want that trunk to land at a perfect twelve o'clock angle. Anything drifting left or right toward eleven or one drops your score. The Challenge caber was a monster; it was so long and heavy I could only manage a couple of full pulls before my muscles screamed. But I spent the weeks honing my precision on the smaller ones, training my body to find that perfect vertical line.
While I was perfecting my twelve o'clock toss under the watchful eyes of Amá Sání and Uncle Desmond, Hank was deep into his own grueling routine at the homestead. Shortly after the Highland Games, we'd be heading to the Gathering in Oklahoma with a massive contingent of the Towering House Clan.
Hank was locked in for the Warrior Run. It's a formalized version of that wild Thanksgiving charge where he and his cousins exploded out from behind the cedar copse at a full gallop, bows in hand. But unlike that Thanksgiving whooping war party, the Gathering's run wasn't a free-for-all demonstration. It was a cold, calculated individual competition judged on both time and accuracy.
Hank was moving up to the U18 category this year. He'd dominated his age group the year before, but now he was the young gun facing off against older, seasoned riders with more muscle and longer reach. It's possible I'm biased—okay, I'm definitely biased—but watching him train, I knew the older boys had no idea what was coming for them.
The weekend training also gave Hank and me some quality Amá Sání strategy-therapy time. Betsy had seen right through our secret the first day back from Thanksgiving, and by now, the inner circle of friends in the know had widened to the secondary and tertiary orbits. It was only a matter of time before our business became Saint Luke's wide.
Amá Sání nodded when we approached her with our fears. "It is inevitable, you know," she said softly. "As Jean Racine penned in 1691, there are no secrets that time does not reveal."
We both nodded. We didn't know Racine, but we got the point.
"Even the most well-meaning of friends can make a slip of the tongue," she added. "And there is no pulling that back once the air has taken it."
Hank leaned against the fence, his eyes on the horizon. "Might not even have to say anything. Now that Dakota knows neither of us is into Betsy, he's already gearing up the courage to ask her out. One more layer of camouflage, gone."
I snorted. "Gearing up? He's been circling her like she's a wolf in heat and he's the pack alpha ready to mate."
"So, you boys must consider two things," she began. "How will you react when your relationship becomes general knowledge at school? Is it a secret because you are ashamed of it, or is it a secret because it is sacred? If it is sacred, then it is a treasure. But even a treasure must eventually be brought into the sun, or it becomes a burden that weighs you down."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "Do not wait for the Little Wind to whisper your secret to the world, or for the Coyote to catch it and howl it from the mesas. If you let them tell it, they will make it sound like a scandal. Use your own breath to tell your story while the air is still yours. Define the sacred yourself, before the world tries to define it for you."
We had our homework. Fortunately, she didn't expect an answer right away. We could push those thoughts into the back of our minds and lose ourselves in the physical grit of our practice.
I accused him of secretly working for Jack, my arch-nemesis, because he insisted on practicing exactly as he'd ride the Warrior Run: bareback, bare-chested, his black mane of hair flying, and wearing nothing but those deerskin leggings. I mucked up more than a few caber tosses getting distracted by the view. He looked just as hot—maybe hotter—than he had back at Thanksgiving.
I couldn't complain too much, though. Now that I had my own pair of deerskin leggings, I'd change into them the moment he finished up and led his horse back to the stables. Once the horse was tended to, we'd tend to each other. It was an intense, deliberate replay of our very first tryst in the stables back at Thanksgiving—only this time, there was no haggis-alarm to interrupt us.
We'd been flirting I guess, from day one. But we were both too shy, too nervous, too inexperienced to make the move. Watching him work back then had pushed me over the edge. Heart pounding, I'd slid my trembling hand down into his leggings to touch his black, arrow-straight pubic hair and his cock for the first time. Now we did it to each other, with confidence—down the front, down the back—touching everywhere.
We were careful, though; deerskin is a sponge for everything—including spooge. We weren't about to let a moment of enthusiasm completely ruin a piece of hand-crafted leather. We'd peel out of them with a frantic desperation, kicking the leggings safely into the straw before I'd finally slide my hand home, touching his black, arrow-straight pubes and his cock for the twenty-third, thirty-seventh, and fifty-four time.
On the Friday of the Highland Games and Celtic Festival, Hank and I packed up the Defender, lavvu and all, and drove out to Liberty Hill. We were turning this into an all-Scottish weekend. We'd camp out for the whole weekend. We were actually getting credit for alone time in our tent, exploring—Hank for his Citizenship in the World Merit Badge, me for Scottish Scout Thistle Award!
Always the scholar, I showed Hank how much I'd learned about the proper application of tongue to his mahogany pucker. I think I got an A, if a squirming, breathless Hank counts as an A; it really depends on the variable, and I haven't ruled on that yet. Is Hank's ability to point his tongue and penetrate deep a prerequisite for an A, or is it genetic extra credit?
We were up and in proper kit early Saturday morning—two Scouts in full Mackenzie regalia. The kick-off day was Scottish culture in hyperdrive. For the athletic events—caber tossing, hammer throw and the like—the day was for the adults to compete in feats of strength—the true grizzly beasts, both men and women. And some of those women were seriously scary. While the heavy events were underway, the periphery of the festival was a swirl of pipe and drum competitions, Highland dancing, and the Dogs of the British Isles.
We made a couple of loops of the periphery; it meant the world to me to play tour guide, showing off a version of my Scotland to Hank, and I could tell he was soaking it all in. Eventually, though, the gravity of the field pulled us in. We took seats in the stands to watch very big people in very short kilts show their prowess. There was a ton of posturing out there—warriors psyching out their opponents, psyching up themselves, or more likely, both.
"Damn, look at the tree-trunks on that guy," Hank whispered, his eyes wide. "I think one thigh is bigger than my waist."
I giggled, leaning into his shoulder so my breath tickled his ear. "I love your tiny waist. Could you imagine trying to navigate a night in the tent with that guy? Ugh. No thank you."
Hank snorted, but his gaze stayed fixed on the field as the giant in the ring prepared. "He looks like he's about to uproot a mountain. You sure you can handle that log tomorrow, Raider?"
"It's not about being a mountain, Hank. Just watch," I said, my voice dropping into scholar mode. "Look at his feet. See how he's kicking the dirt? He's looking for the flat."
The athlete groaned as he hoisted the massive timber, bracing it against his shoulder. "There's the Lift," I narrated softly. "He's got to cup the toe perfectly. If it's off by a fraction…"
He started his run. "There. See the wobble, it's swaying like a mast in the North Sea." I pointed. "He's fighting the weight instead of moving with it. He's in trouble."
The beast reached the end of his run and gave a violent, guttural heave—the Pull. The log soared high, and far, but instead of flipping straight forward, it drifted lazily to the side, thudding into the grass with a heavy, dead vibration.
"Nine o'clock," I sighed, shaking my head. "All that power, and he just threw away the point. It's not just brute strength, Hank; finesse is just as important."
Just then I felt a hand on my arm, I glanced to my left. Da says not to look up, but I did, I can't help it. Her blonde hair blew out the Texas Vertical Scale—but maybe it was the parallax, she was right next to me. A grown-up version of the Paige prototype.
"You sound like you know how this game works, young man. Why was he unhappy, that stick went really far."
"Yes, ma'am. It did go far, but it's not about the distance; it's about the angle. Think of it like a watch face. Twelve o'clock is perfect. The further you land to the left or right, the lower your score."
She nodded, digesting that. "Did I hear your friend say you were doing this tomorrow? You're going to throw that big stick?"
"I am tossing tomorrow, but not that big stick," I said, offering a small smile. "That caber probably weighs as much as I do, maybe more. Ours will be a bit lighter—probably around fifty pounds."
"My nephew is going to compete tomorrow too. He said he was going to be here today, but then I heard he went fishing instead. You boys look like you go to Saint Luke's—maybe you know him? Jack Williams. He plays football."
I managed not to roll my eyes. "Yes, ma'am. We know Jack. We're in the same class and on the track team together."
"He's a powerful boy, just like those men," she said proudly, patting my arm again. "Not a skinny thing like you. Don't feel bad when he throws that stick further than you tomorrow."
I held my tongue. "Thank you, ma'am. I won't."
I turned my attention back to the competition, feeling Hank's hip shuddering against mine as he tried his absolute best not to laugh. The next competitor was a smaller guy than the first; still way bigger than Hank or I. He had better technique than the first beast we'd watched. He moved with a focused, rhythmic grace, and when he hit the Pull, the caber flipped end-over-end to land at a perfect twelve o'clock.
The crowd roared, the sound echoing off the bleachers. Jack's aunt looked very confused, her hands frozen mid-clap—clearly, she was still looking for distance. She didn't realize that in the world of the caber, the little guy with the perfect flip just humiliated the giant who threw his stick completely off-line.
It was an awesome day. The only downside was the distance we had to keep—no holding hands, no wrapping our arms around each other, and definitely no kissing. With so many people about, it was a bit torturous for both of us. We passed on the Scottish fare for lunch and dinner; there was just no way their haggis sliders were going to compete with even my cooking, let alone Mum's. Instead, we played it safe. You can't go wrong with barbecue in Texas, and this was really good. I even tried my very first deep-fried Oreos and Twinkies, but the deep-fried Snickers was the clear winner.
The loud, explosive beast energy of the day finally began to bleed away as the sun hit the tree line. We were halfway back to the camping area when the first note of the bagpipes cut through the dusk. It wasn't the sharp, military bugle call of Taps that I was used to from Scout camp; it was a Lone Piper, his silhouette sharp against the orange sky.
He played Flowers of the Forest —a slow, aching lament that seemed to pull the very heat out of the air. It was haunting, the kind of music that makes me feel the weight of every MacKenzie that came before me. It makes me cry, every time, and today was no different. Hank stopped walking and wrapped his arm tight around my shoulder. It didn't matter anymore who was around. Both of us stood silently as the drone of the pipes vibrated in the grass beneath our feet. It was the perfect end to the day.
We lay down, Hank cuddling me tight the second we closed the flap to the lavvu. "You okay?" he whispered, the worry clear in his voice.
"Yeah, but don't stop cuddling me," I murmured. "I always cry when I hear Flowers of the Forest. It's so beautiful, but so sad and haunting."
"I guess you really are Scottish," he giggled. "I was wondering if you were just faking it for the attention."
"Just like you're pretending to be Navajo?" I smirked, but only for a second. Hank retaliated by launching a completely unprovoked, sneak tickling attack. I squirmed, twisted, and tried a counter-attack—all to no avail. He only relented when I was gasping for breath.
Our eyes locked, both of us wearing silly-ass grins. I twisted around so we were face-to-face. "I need some Hank kissing."
Last night, our Warrior Spirits had been at the forefront; tonight, it was our Gentle Spirits. It led to the same incredible, body-wracking outcome, just a very different way of getting there. The kissing led to us slowly undressing each other, punctuated by long caresses and gentle petting.
No need for words; we both understood what we needed. We settled comfortably into a long, slow feasting, lying on our sides. I suppose if Hank's genetic superpower is his pointed tongue; mine is the ability to open my throat and take him all-the-way deep.
The next morning, Hank donned his Mackenzie regalia again. Since I was competing, I switched to my sport kilt—shorter, lighter, and secured with velcro instead of heavy buckles—still in the Mackenzie tartan, of course. I wore sneakers for the walk over, carrying my throwing cleats—didn't need to get caught and twist my ankle just walking to the event.
Banned in any other sport in the US, they're a weapon unto themselves. They have long, sharp metal studs, even in the heel. When you hit the plant and begin the Lift, you can't afford to have your feet slide even an inch. If your base slips, the caber wins.
Jack and his crew were already stretching and warming up when we got to the heavy ring. They were wearing rented kilts, obviously; they weren't even real tartans. I suppose I should count it a win that Jack was actually wearing what he'd spent all year calling a skirt. They did have cleats—football cleats with plastic studs, not metal. On a dry day, they'd probably be fine, but it was early and the dew-covered grass was dangerously slippery.
The Judge, a burly guy with a beard that looked like it was woven from gray wool, walked down the line, checking each of the cabers. He kicked the base of the biggest one—the Challenge caber —checking for rot or soft spots.
"The grass is slick, boys," the Judge grunted. He looked right at Jack's plastic cleats before glancing down at my metal spikes. "Make sure you've got your feet under you before you try the Pick. I don't want to be hauling any of you to the med-tent because you slipped and wore a hundred pounds of cedar as a hat."
The Judge held up three fingers. "Three tosses each, gents. Best one stays on the books. If you don't turn it by the third, you're out of the running for points. We'll do three rounds—qualifying, ranking, and then the challenge."
I saw Jack wipe his palms on his rental kilt, his jaw set. Three chances to prove he was the Beast ; I knew he wanted to go straight to the challenge. I just checked the laces on my spikes. I didn't need three chances; I just needed one perfect toss.
There were ten of us total in our age group: myself and five others from Saint Luke's, then four guys we didn't know—no one else had a Scottish accent. I nailed my first toss on the qualifier. I executed a clean Pick, planted my heels, and turned the stick with an almost perfect twelve. A successful turn, I got to rest and save my back until the next round.
Jack got there eventually, but it took him all three tosses to figure out the traction. I think he was prouder of his distance than the turn. Four other boys made it through, so six moving into the ranking round.
The Judge swapped the qualifier for a sixteen-foot cedar log that weighed in right around eighty pounds—two feet longer and twenty pounds heavier than the first round. That extra length moved the center of gravity higher, making the balance feel twice as twitchy. I was happy Hank and I had cut our own cabers out on Amá Sání's farm and practiced.
The ranking round was a massacre. The sixteen-foot log was just long enough that if you didn't have your feet perfectly beneath you, the top would wander. One by one, the other four boys fooled their tosses. Two of them couldn't even get the log through the Pick ; their plastic cleats just skated across the clover while the caber stayed rooted in the mud.
I turned my first attempt again—not a perfect twelve this time, more like a twelve-ten, but it was a clean flip. I was through; and more importantly, still fresh—I'd need it.
Jack struggled, he was getting tired. His first toss was a flop—the log hit the ground and just fell over sideways. On his second, he nearly wore that cedar hat the Judge warned us about when his feet slid forward during the Pull. But on his third attempt, he let out a roar that probably reached the food tents and manhandled the thing over. It was ugly, and it landed at a two-o'clock, but it was a turn.
We were the only two left. Jack was clearly stunned that I would be his opponent in the challenge round. I think it rattled him.
The challenge caber—it was a seventeen-foot cedar, stripped clean and tapered to a narrow, smooth base. But only ninety pounds—just ten over the ranking. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief—a win would be technique, not brute strength, which I didn't have. Jack glanced my way and smirked—his beast would power through this.
"You're up, Mackenzie," the Judge said, nodding to me.
I didn't waste time. I stepped into the fresh grass, my metal spikes biting deep and firm into the sod. I performed the Pick, feeling the long, thin reach of the caber as it rested against my shoulder.
I didn't just run; I accelerated with a focused, linear burst, keeping the log perfectly vertical. When I hit the Pull, I exploded upward and through. The seventeen-footer groaned, hung in the air for a heartbeat as if debating the laws of gravity, and then flipped.
It slammed into the turf with a resonant thwack, dead straight. "Twelve o'clock," the Judge called out, his voice echoing in the silence of the ring.
I stepped back, my chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm, and grinned at Jack. He was staring at the log, then at my feet, then back at the Judge. He had three tosses to match perfection, and I could see him gnawing on his lower lip.
His best toss was his first. He threw it way further than I had—the explosive power in his legs is seriously impressive—and the stick flipped, slamming into the turf with a heavy thud. "Eleven o'clock!" the Judge called.
Twice more Jack tossed, and each time he drove the caber even further out into the field. But with every extra foot of distance, he lost his line. The long cedar log wandered in the air, falling further and further to the side. By his last attempt, he was red-faced and staggering, and the caber flopped over at a messy two o'clock.
"First place: Mackenzie! A perfect twelve on the challenge stick; Second place Williams, with an eleven o'clock."
He draped a gold medal on a thick tartan ribbon around my neck. It felt heavy and cool against my collarbone.
Jack stood ten feet away, his chest still heaving. He'd been awarded the silver, but he was staring at his medal like it was a participation trophy.
"Nice toss, Jack," I said. I didn't smirk; I just let the gold around my neck do the talking.
He didn't answer. He just turned and headed toward his crew.
I hit the stands, sidling up to a seriously giddy Hank who wanted to replay the whole event blow-by-blow. We stayed to watch Jack win his gold. He might have been knackered at the end of the caber toss, but the Beast ruled the Hammer Throw. We even cheered.
I knew better than to even try the hammer. Finesse had gotten me through the caber, my efficiency had saved my strength and my back. If I'd had to make three tosses a round like Jack, I never would have stood a chance. I was happy to let him have the heavy metal. I had proven you don't have to be the strongest; you just have to do it right.
A few weeks later, Jack actually came around and congratulated me; like Hank says, he has his moments. He is smart; that's just offset by his conceit—maybe a little humbling experience was a good thing for him, probably the first time in his life. He'd definitely been thoroughly analyzing his second-place utter defeat ; asking a slew of questions about details of the event—from my cleats, to the Pick, the Run, the Pull.
The technical post-mortem didn't stop with that one conversation. Every day after track, Jack would walk with Hank and me to the locker room, drilling down into the minutiae of the caber toss. He'd keep going as we stripped off our gear and walked to the showers—soap, rinse, and repeat—still asking questions about torque and leverage while we were all stark naked.
I have to give it to him: the guy is totally ripped. He's got a much more muscular build than Hank or me—one-seventy-five to our one-fifty. His pecs are defined mounds compared to our relatively flat chests, and you'd practically bounce off his shoulder-boulders if you bumped into him in the hall. He has biceps and triceps; Hank and I just have arms.
All that muscle looks good—no, hot —on him, especially with that shock of platinum-blond hair. Don't worry, my Hank still has the most beautiful body in the world to me, but Jack is undeniably fun to look at. Hank and I even agreed: if Jack ever offered to fool around with the two of us together, we definitely wouldn't be opposed.
The only downside is the lack of a sheath. He doesn't have one to give warmth and comfort to that vivid coral crown; poor thing must feel awfully exposed without a bit of cover.
Eventually, the technical debates ran their course, and Jack talked me into practical demonstrations. Hank and I loaded my three cedar cabers onto the Defender and spent a Saturday on a side field at Saint Luke's. The ground was bone-dry, giving Jack's football cleats the kind of bite and stability he'd lacked on the dewy grass at the Games. By the end of the afternoon, with a bit of Scottish grit rubbing off on him, he was tossing with real authority.
We also discovered he's got a wee bit of Scot in him, just like Hank. His mum and his aunt—the one at the Games with the sky-scraping hair—are MacPhersons. I physically cringed when he looked me in the eye and asked, "MacPherson...that's Scottish, isn't it?"
I decided to forgive his ancestral ignorance and texted him a link to a proper kilt shop in Edinburgh. He needs actual throwing cleats and a genuine MacPherson tartan, something to replace that Lilly Pulitzer-met-Royal Stewart at a frat party disaster he'd worn at the Games.
Between the new gear and his focus, he'll probably beat me next year.
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