At the scene of the Gathering Qwilleran and Polly climbed to the top of the bleachers to ensure the best view.
First there were the marching bands, featuring bagpipes and drums and representing the counties of Lockmaster and Bixby. “The very sound of a bagpipe-and-drum band makes me teary-eyed with Scottish pride,” Polly said.
Qwilleran admitted that he liked the sound but was not moved to tears. “Probably because I’m only half Scottish. I’m assuming that my father was a Dane, basing the assumption on the Qw spelling and my fondness for Danish pastry.”
When the first skirling bagpipes and beating drums were heard, however, a chill ran down his spine. Eight ranks of men and women in colorful tartan garb marched in precise formations while playing Scotland the Brave. The spectators rose to their feet.
Then came the dancers, performing the Highland Fling and Sword Dance on portable stages while musicians bowed their fiddles in a frenzy. Young women in Highland dress bounced on the balls of their feet, their pleated kilts swirling.
Polly said, “O to be twenty years old – and weightless!”
The traditional kicks and turns and arm positions were done with micrometric exactness.
“They dance on a dime – and do it without looking!” she cried in amazement.
In the Sword Dance they bounced between the crossed blades without touching steel. When they danced in a line of three or four, their gyrations were synchronized right down to a heartbeat.
There was only one male dancer. In announcing his solo, the master of ceremonies said that Highland dancing was originally an athletic challenge for men, requiring both skill and endurance.
Qwilleran said to Polly, “Do you know the bozo who won the gold medal for the caber toss?”
“I’m afraid not. I know several John Campbells, but none could toss anything heavier than a horseshoe.”
The final event was the pibroch, performed by the police chief of Pickax. The centuries-old tradition called for a lone piper to play a succession of pieces increasing in difficulty, all the while walking slowly about the stage. For the piper it was a challenge; for the audience it was a mesmerizing experience, almost spiritual in its effect. The crowd watched in total silence. Polly claimed to have been in a trance.
Qwilleran said, “In the Scottish community Andy is considered the master of the pibroch.” And he thought, I’ll invite him to the barn for a drink tonight.
They were walking back to the brown van in the parking lot when Qwilleran swooped down on a penny and dropped it in his pocket. Polly had not noticed.
On the way home she asked, “What are you writing for your Tuesday column?”
“Glad you asked. Thanks to our conversation on fibs, I’m planning a dissertation on prevarications of all kinds; untruths, falsehoods, canards, whoppers, taradiddles, fibble-fabble, and just plain bull. I’m asking, What is the difference between a little white lie and big dirty one?… What are the dangers of lying to your boss, your spouse, a court judge, the Internal Revenue Service?… What was the most heinous lie in Shakespeare?”
“In Othello,” she replied without hesitation. “Iago maliciously lies about Desdemona’s handkerchief, and it leads to her murder.”
“Good! Go to the head of the class. And how about Mark Twain? Did he have anything to say about lies?”
“He had something to say about everything!” She reflected briefly. “He said the difference… between a cat and a lie was that… a cat has only nine lives.”
That brought up the subject of the Mark Twain Festival. According to old letters and diaries found in Moose County, the author had lectured in Pickax in 1895 while touring the northern states, and he had captivated the audience with his wit and forthright opinions. There was no documented evidence that he had slept at the Pickax hotel; on the other hand, there was no proof that he had not! And the Mackintosh Inn had decided to rename the presidential suite The Mark Twain Suite. Already his portrait hung above the bed where Delacamp had been murdered.
Qwilleran told Polly, “The murder in the presidential suite has caused the festival promoters to postpone it until October.”
“Is that a good month?” she asked. “It could be cold.”
“There’s a meeting Wednesday to discuss the pros and cons.”
Qwilleran dropped Polly at her condo for her Sunday ritual of getting herself together for the workweek. What it entailed he had no idea, and he would never ask. He himself went home to feed the cats and talk to them: “You guys missed a good show this weekend. Next year we’ll have a Feline Gathering. Koko can toss the caber, and Yum Yum can dance the Highland Fling on the balls of her paws.”
Whether he talked nonsense or recited the Declaration of Independence, their reaction was the same: purring, looking wide-eyed, and twitching their tails. As he discovered, Koko had done a little caber-tossing of his own; the floor of the library area was littered with the fat yellow pencils that Qwilleran kept in his ceramic pencil-holder.
