SEARCHING PICTISH GHOSTS:

A smell of fresh-washed laundry reached my nostrils. “What the hell,” I cried, wondering how the thieving gypsy got into the car. As if reading my mind, she hissed, “Stop worrying about your underwear. Concentrate on the fog. A worm has more brains than you. You ought to crawl under a rock and stay there. “I swung my arm at her. But she jumped into the back seat before I could reach her. “There is a clearing to your right. Be a good boy and park there," she instructed. “Don’t call me a good boy! “I was pissed. I had come to Scotland in search of self-emancipation, and here I was being bullied by a Gypsy. But she made sense. It was sheer madness driving up the hill. Mussolini’s words came to my mind: “Better live one day like a lion, than one hundred days like a sheep.” I started the engine and headed into the gut of the fog. "Have you gone mad?” the Gypsy yelled. I laughed, “A just reward for a thief.” “I didn’t steal your fucking long johns, you fool,” she cried, returned by my side, and frantically grabbed the edges of her seat. I got to her, I thought with glee and pressed on the gas pedal. At the top of the hill I turned to look at her. She was gone along with the fog. Good riddance, I mused, as I glanced at wild flowers undulating alongside the shore of a lake. Thinking that it was the body of water where I had been told Pictish ghosts congregated, I parked in a clearing, removed my shoes and socks, and headed for a tall sand dune. Eyeing the shimmering lake from the top, I imagined myself a Pictish chieftain leading my warriors in a jubilant welcome of the spring harvest. A sudden gust of wind brought me back to reality. Back at the car, I invited Pictish ghosts to join me for a glass of red wine. Saddened by their absence, I undressed, crawled inside my sleeping bag, and closed my eyes. Chanting and drum beats broke the quiet of dawn. Blond and tall, their naked bodies painted in rainbow hues, men and women emerged. Their long tresses blew in the wind. Their spears sparked in the rising sun. The high priest, his head adorned with ram’s horns, led the tribesmen in a circle around me. Panicked, I watched a slender, young woman, her breasts painted in gold, stepping toward me. She commanded me to remove my shirt and pants. Dripping with sweat, my heart thumping, I shook my head. Perhaps I could barter something in exchange for my life. But I couldn't imagine any of my possessions appealing to these savages. The woman raised her voice. Fearing the consequences of refusal, I obliged. Next, she pointed at my underpants, shoes, and socks. Ever so slowly I removed my garments and covered my private parts with my hands. Nodding, she motioned for me to follow her to a stone bench on which lay a dozen vessels filled with paint. She dipped her hand into one containing red pigment, then ran her fingers on my forehead, chest, back, and legs. Next she placed her hand into a vessel containing green paint and repeated the act. Blue, orange, and yellow followed. By the time she had finished, my body looked like that of a mating peacock. To what purpose during breading season have I been painted? To be sacrificed in a religious ceremony? To be initiated into the tribe? I eyed the savages searching for a clue, when a blood-curdling cry exploded behind me. The chanting and drumming stopped. The woman dropped the vessel she was holding and rushed to join her cohort. Hesitantly, I turned and saw a black bear, its body tense as a sling, standing ten yards from me. I thought of myself a gladiator in the Roman Coliseum, but gladiators had swords to defend themselves. All I had were my bare hands. A tribesman lifted a spear and threw it to me. I caught it, as the bear rose to its full seven-foot height, saliva dripping from the corners of its mouth. I wanted to run but felt too embarrassed to make a cowardly retreat before the watching tribesmen. The beast growled and charged. The earth shook as if under the spell of an earthquake. I dug my heels into the sand, aimed my spear, and threw it at a spot in between its eyes. The bear growled again stopped in its tracks and collapsed. The tribesmen broke out in a jubilant cry. Half a dozen surrounded me, pointed their spears at me, and led me to the high priest standing tall on top of a flat boulder. What now? I wondered. I had conducted myself with honor. I had displayed the courage of a Pict. My anguish disappeared as I detected a trace of a smile on the high priest’s face. The six warriors turned and left. The high priest placed the tip of his spear on my left, then on my right shoulder, then motioned for me to join women building fires, and men skinning the bear. Smell of sizzling meat filled the air. The woman who had painted me came over and handed me the bear's heart. I sank my teeth into it and felt myself grow to the size of the defeated beast. When the sun stopped momentarily at the horizon, the high priest led me and chanting and drumming tribesmen and their women to a large clearing dotted with tents made of animal hides. He stepped inside the largest tent. I walked into a smaller, adjacent one. Gazing at the darkened roof, I reviewed the events of the day with tears dampening my cheeks. The next morning, I found no traces of my new comrades. Saddened, I dressed, ate a fast breakfast, and ventured up the sand hill I had visited the day before. Chants about conquests, sacrifice, and heroic deaths, rose out of bogs, marches and shimmering, rolling grass. I waved farewell at the invisible singers, returned to the car, and drove away with the reassuring knowledge that the spirit of ancient Picts would flow in my veins.