Free The Last Sunset by Bob Atkinson

Charlie? You’ve translated it all wrong, ya dumplin’!”
    Macsorley shook his head. “It’s like Ah said
earlier; this isn’t a croft-house; the old guy’s never heard of the word.
Crofts didn’t appear until later in the eighteenth century.”
    Macmillan could see the old Highlander
whispering at his family. Their expressions indicated they were having equal
difficulty accepting events.
    “So this is all real?” said Ferguson. “These
people; they’re no’ ghosts or that? They think they’re living in… in… seventeen
sixty-four?”
    “It’s seventeen forty-six, and that’s no’ what
Ah’m saying! It’s no’ them that’s the problem, it’s us! They are livin’
in seventeen forty–six… This is it! This is the real thing! God alone knows
what we’re doing here!”
    Rae shook his head angrily. “Aw, this is all
rubbish! That’s probably dope the old git’s burning in yon fire! Ah’ve had
enough of this. Ah’m getting tae hell outae here!” He pushed his way angrily
out of the house, almost taking the door off its hinges. Immediately he came to
a halt, moaning softly: “Aw, God Almighty.”
    Gone was the assault course that had been gouged
out of the glen. Gone too were the ruins that studded the landscape. Before
him, nestling in archaic splendour, lay a scattered hamlet of thatched
cottages, each sending a little trail of peat smoke into the soft morning air.
As far as the eye could see, the land showed every sign of habitation. Amid the
pastoral clutter chickens, goats, cattle, sturdy little ponies grazed.
Cultivated ridges snaked upwards into the cloud-covered hillsides.
    “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful in all
yer life?” said Macsorley, his eyes bright with excitement.
    “This is no’ happening,” Rae mumbled.
    “Did we do this?” whispered Ferguson. “We didnae
do all this, did we?”
    “Chentlemen, you will forgive my lack of
hospitality,” a soft, heavily accented voice interjected.
    All four turned in surprise to find the old
Highlander standing behind them. His womenfolk still hovered nervously on the
threshold of their cottage.
    “It is not ushual for visitors to be entering my
house through the byre.”
    The soldiers gaped in mute astonishment.
Encountering this phantom was one thing; discovering he could talk was like
communicating with the dead.
    “Yes, chentlemen, I have the English, myself,”
the old Highlander went on. “ ’Tis a wise man who learns the tongue of his
adversary, is it not?”
    “Who… eh, who are you?” Macmillan mumbled.
    “As your young friend informed you; I am Domnhuill
Beag Camshron of Achnacon .” He bowed elegantly. “And yourselfs,
chentlemen? You wear the breeks of the Lowlander, but I am thinking you are not
King Cheorge’s men…?”
    Macmillan shook his head, his eyes as wide as if
he was confronted by Lazarus. “Corporal Andy Macmillan, from Stirling…”
Mechanically he held out his hand, which the Highlander grasped.
    “Macmillan, you say? From Stirling? An unushual
home for such a fine name.” His alert eyes took in every detail of his strange
visitors. “Now there is a queer thing… And would yourself be kin to the
Macmillans of Loch Arkaigside, at all?”
    “Aaah don’t think so…”
    Their interpreter held out his hand. “Private
James Macsorley, from… eh, from Muirshearlach …”
    The old Highlander’s face lit up. “Macsorley… from Muirshearlach ? Och, but of course, yourself hass the red hair of Muirshearlach .
You are welcome to my home, young Muirshearlach .” He turned to the
remaining soldiers, who stood like mute oxen, awaiting orders. “And your
friends?”
    “Private Archie Rae, frae Paisley…”
    “Private William Ferguson, frae Irvine yer… er,
yer Highness.”
    “Paisley… Irvine… Ach, well, never mind,” the
old man murmured disappointedly. “Och, but I am forgetting my manners.
Yourselfs must be tired, and hungry, after your… ah, your chourney here?”
    Food had