Chapter V

Since I was unable to sleep, I drifted down to what appeared to be a bar and stumbled upon a Scottish patron. Up to this point of my life I had been all over the world and I had learned two simple truths: there is no such thing as a shy Scotsman; and there is no such thing as a financially liberal Scotsman.

As I approached the room that resembled the bar of the inn, and I was about to turn around and find my way back to my room when I heard, “Hey Laddie, you’re looking as if you could use a wee nip.”

It was enough to stop me in my tracks, making me wonder if I should journey back to my own lodgings or venture into the dimly lit dugout of a caveat of a room in which the obviously sociable and possibly drunk Scot sat like a smug b*****d searching for a fight. I decided upon the latter, finding a seat near the man, looking around for the bartender.
 

“Ya hafta pour yer own drink, laddie,” he said in a way that sounded as if it were one long word.
After a moment I collected myself and asked, “How do they know what we have drank if we pour it ourselves?”
 

“They doona give a bloody rat’s a*s what we’ve drank, laddie,” he asserted, “they only care that we stay once we’ve arrived.”
 

I remember that that sounded particularly chilling and I called him on the matter asking, “What does that mean?”
 

“Jeezus Christ, laddie, are yer havin’ a nip or nay?”
 

I remember a wry smile finding its way upon my face as I stated succinctly, “I guess I could have a wee nip if your buying.”
 

“Have ya ever been to Aberdeen, laddie?”
 

“Can’t say that I have.”
 

“The way you ask for a drink�"it reminds me of home”
 

“I guess the poor and the bashful always sound the same.”
 

“Rightly said, laddie, rightly said.”
 

“Give me a break, no one talks like that any more, not even in Scotland.”
 

“When’s the last time you’ve been in Scotland, laddie?”
 

“Well, actually, I’ve been to England and Ireland, but never to Scotland ...”
 

“Never been, ...”
 

“No, never been.”
 

“Then would ya kindly no tell me how I am to talk?”
 

“Fair enough, I suppose ... but who is tending the bar here?”
 

“Laddie, yer just not gettin’ it, there’s no one tendin’ the bar�" if ya want a drink then get it, if ya don’t then don’t. I wouldna think it so complicated.”
 

“You mean I should just help myself?”
 

“I mean nothin’ of the sort. I’m just sayin’ if ya want a drink, then get one.”
 

“And no one will mind?”
 

“Whadda ya care?”
 

“If you put it that way, I guess I don’t.” I slipped behind the bar, sniffed a couple of bottles, and mixed myself what was close to a Martini with the liquor they had to offer. “Do you need one while I’m here?” I asked the Scotsman sharing the room.
 

“Never, under any circumstances, ask a Scotsman whether or no he needs another drink�" he always does, laddie, and he is always offended by the question.”
 

“My apologies,” I uttered as I grabbed a bottle of something that looked like a dark liquid, with my other hand I grabbed my Eastern European version of a Martini. I brought both to where the old man was sitting, filling his already half-filled glass with more dark liquor.
 

“I see ya drink the drink of wankers,” he said as I filled my glass.
 

“Gin is the drink of wankers?” I asked innocently.
 

“It’s the drink of the British, the bloody wankers!”
 

“Didn’t the British conquer the Scots?”
 

“Laddie, if yer lookin’ fer a knock doon, keep it up! Everyone in every civilized country knows that scotch is the preferred beverage of civilized men.”
 

“And what do civilized women drink?” I asked, sipping my newly mixed martini.
 

“What do ya mean, laddie,?”
 

“What do the women drink?”
 

“They drink the same as the men! What else would they drink?”
 

I downed my martini and quickly found myself mixing another. Drinking it swiftly as the Scot and I made polite conversation. I mixed another, downing that one as well. Then I mixed one more. I sipped it and felt bold enough to ask what had been bothering me for the last half-hour-or-so: “Do they still have patriarchal b******s like you in the UK masquerading as civilized people?”
 

“Are ya in the UK now, Laddie?” was his response.
 

“No,” I answered after a moment of reflection.
 

“Where exactly are ya?” he demanded.
 

“Well, for all I know,” I responded, “I’m in a country that doesn’t exist.”
 

“So, ya admit ya’ve never been to my country, and ya admit that you’re not quite certain where you are at the moment ... and ya’re going to tell me how the world is, are ya? Forgive me if that doesn’t sound a wee arrogant.”
 

“Okay, I guess that’s a valid point. I must seem like just another cocky American, but again, that’s not a very original observation, is it?”
 

“Bloody hell, laddie, do ya think that that is what it’s about? I care-na that ya are just another rude American. You and your mates are in danger.”
 

“What do you mean that we are in danger?” I asked, trying not to betray that the way he said it scared the hell out of me�"especially when married to the “You are safe now” of the old woman.
 

“Ya seem like a sensible lad, laddie, don’t go lookin’ fer what they say yer lookin’ fer.”
 

“We’re not looking for anything but a legend.”
 

“You’re looking for the Slairva! I’m tellin’ ya laddie, don’t go lookin’ fer what yer not ready to find.”
 

“What do you know about the Slairva?” I demanded.
 

“Enough notta go lookin’ fer ‘im.”
 

“You believe that Slairva still exists, don’t you?”
 

“Laddie, I’m not sayin’ that I believe in anything. But I’ve lived long enough to know that one shouldna be so damned eager to disbelieve what people have taken seriously for hundreds of years.” He paused, staring at his nearly empty glass of Scotch, reflecting on his words. “I merely believe that one should not ask questions if ya doona wanna learn the answers.”
 

The two of us spoke for a while longer, until I felt sufficiently drunk enough to finally fall asleep. I wove my way back to my room. I know that hours must have passed because it was still quite dark when I found the bar and it was quite bright when I returned to my bed. I closed my eyes and slipped into something resembling sleep. It seemed as if a few inadequate moments had passed when I was awakened by a knock on the door, which I chose to ignore. After more, and considerably louder knocking, I heard the squeal of the hinges as the door was opened. It was Matt informing me that we have to get started.