The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [195]
“The constable they sent to see cam back and said, weel, bar the drippin’ blood, ’twas a verra accurate description”—he paused for effect—”of a nice Highland cow, chewin’ her cud in the bracken!”
—Outlander, chapter 2, “Standing Stones”
I had seen the cattle disappear, one shaggy beast at a time, down the ditch that led to the hidden postern door, under the expert driving of Rupert and his men. But would they be able to force the cattle through that door, singly or not? And if so, what would they do once inside; half-wild cattle, trapped suddenly in a stone corridor lit with glaring torchlight? Well, perhaps it would work. The corridor itself would be not unlike their stone-floored barn, including torches and the scent of humans. If they got so far, the plan might succeed.
… Jamie winced as the spirit stung his torn mouth, but drained the beaker before laying his head down again. His eyes slanted up at me, slightly filmed with pain and whisky, but alight with amusement nonetheless. “Cows?” he asked. “Was it really cows, or was I dreaming?”
—Outlander, chapter 36, “MacRannoch”
I had begun “building” a picture of Castle Leoch in the same fashion as Lallybroch; by giving the illustrators both a general description of the castle, and a number of photographs and drawings of buildings of the proper period, noting the elements of each that were “right” for the vision of the castle that I had in my head. The preliminary drawing looked like that on the left—Castle Leoch, gradually taking solid shape out of the fog of my imagination.
Before we got further with the picture, though, I happened to go to a Highland Games in California. As I was signing books, a couple of people came up to me, holding a scrapbook, and introduced themselves to me: Steven McKenzie and his daughter, Anne, of the local Clan MacKenzie Society. They invited me to become an honorary member of clan MacKenzie, and upon my pleased acceptance,1 presented me with a T-shirt decorated with the clan badge, and showed me the photographs in their scrapbook—taken at the most recent Gathering of clan MacKenzie, in Scotland. Among the scenes of Highland beauty and massed MacKenzies, were several photographs of the clan seat—Castle Leod.
“You’re kidding!” I said, seeing this. “You mean there is a place called Leod?”
They were surprised at this, having assumed that I not only knew about Castle Leod, but had seen it, since the description in Outlander matched the reality so well.
“Well, I have seen it,” I said. “But not in a photograph.”
Since the reality had so abruptly popped up in front of me, though, it seemed unnecessary to go on constructing the imaginary version, and so I asked the McKenzies’ permission—graciously granted—to use their photographs of the Real Thing.
—D.G.
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, if you consider it uneventful to ride fifteen miles on horseback through rough country at night, frequently without benefit of roads, in company with kilted men armed to the teeth, and sharing a horse with a wounded man. At least we were not set upon by highwaymen, we encountered no wild beasts, and it didn’t rain. By the standards I was becoming used to, it was quite dull.…
Not surprisingly, it was misting heavily, but there was enough light to show a stone bridge, arching over a small stream that ran past the front of the castle, down to a dully gleaming loch a quarter mile away.
The castle itself was blunt and solid. No fanciful turrets or toothed battlements. This was more like an enormous fortified house, with thick stone walls and high, slitted windows.