I stared out my window, a lump in my throat, as we flew over the snow-covered peaks of the Grampian Mountains. Through wisps of clouds I could see evergreen patches of pine and the dark waters of Loch Ness, an ominous highway of water running northeast through the Great Glen before narrowing at Tor Point into the River Ness.
Ten minutes later, we landed at Inverness Airport.
Located at the mouth of the Ness river (Inver meaning "mouth of," thus the name) the capital of the Highlands is a city of sixty-five thousand, its architecture steeped in Scottish tradition, its land filled with history. Inverness began as an ancient fortress on Craig Phadrig, a hill fort with huge ramparts, which served as the capital of the Pictish Kingdom as far back as A.D. 400. It was here that St. Columba embarked on his quest to convert the Picts to Christianity… and, in so doing, discovered a water creature that would be turned into a legend.
I walked through the terminal, dead on my feet, not having slept for the last twenty-eight hours. Max led us to the baggage carousel, and twenty minutes later we were in his car, motoring south along Old Military Road, the sounds of The Cure's synthesizers and guitar blaring from the radio speakers.
"Max, I need to get some sleep. Just drop me off at my hotel, I'll see Angus later."
"Sorry, but Angus was quite insistent on seeing you now."
"It's been seventeen years since I've seen him, he can wait another twelve hours."
"Actually, he can't. We go to trial tomorrow" He handed me a copy of the Inverness Courier. The article covered most of Thursday's front page.
INVERNESS PROSECUTORS SEEK DEATH PENALTY IN CIALINO MURDER CASE
Lord Neil Hannam and the High Court of Justiciary have agreed to consider the death penalty in the murder trial of Angus Wallace of Drumnadrochit. Wallace is accused of killing John Cialino, Jr., CEO of Cialino Ventures, one of Great Britain's wealthiest and most influential businessmen. Witnesses report seeing Cialino fall into Loch Ness after being stricken by Wallace on the banks of Urquhart Castle. Police are still dredging Loch Ness, searching for the victim's remains. Opening statements are scheduled to begin Friday.
"First calling was months ago," Max explained. "Judge decided to keep the old man locked up, afraid he'd skip bail. We entered a plea of not guilty back in March, been waiting ever since."
We passed Castle Stuart, heading for the A96, my pulse quickening as I took in the deep blue waters of the Moray Firth. Beaches and cliff tops lined its shoreline; dolphins, porpoises, and killer whales inhabited its North Sea waters.
Despite being part of one island, England and Scotland look nothing alike, due to the fact their geologies were actually conceived thousands of miles apart. About 550 million years ago, the planet's landmasses were all located in the Southern Hemisphere. Scotland belonged to the North American continent (part of Canada's Torngat Mountain Range) while England, Wales, and southern Ireland were united in the remains of a massive continent known as Gondwana. The two kingdoms that would one day form Great Britain were separated by a three-thousand-mile expanse of ocean, known as the Iapetus. After 75 million years of continental breakup and drift, the islands of Scotland and England collided — a million to one shot if ever there was one.
Today, Scotland's topography can be divided into two distinct regions: the Lowlands, densely populated with its industry and bustling cities, and the Highlands, a vast mountainous region rich in wildlife, surrounded by hundreds of coastal islands.
During the last ice age, which ended some ten thousand years ago, Scandinavia and the Scottish Highlands were buried beneath great expanses of glaciers. As these mountains of ice and snow moved, they deepened and rounded out the Highlands' existing river valleys, leaving behind deep lakes (lochs) and long valleys (glens).
Imagine one enormous trench splitting Scotland in two and you'd have the Great Glen. Spanning nearly seventy miles, this 400-million-year-old glacial rift is set upon a geological fault line that widened and deepened during the last ice age. When the ice finally retreated, it left behind a series of freshwater lochs that cut diagonally across the Highlands from the Atlantic to the North Sea. These four bodies of water have been connected to one another through a series of man-made locks, known collectively as the Caledonian Canal.
Completed in 1822, the Caledonian Canal spans twenty-two miles through the Great Glen, connecting the North Sea's Moray Firth to the Atlantic by way of Lochs Dochfour, Ness, Oich, and Lochy. Its most impressive feature is at Fort William, where "Neptune's Staircase" uses eight locks to raise and lower vessels seventy feet above sea level.
We were traveling along the east bank of the Ness River when Max surprised me by making a quick left, following a winding access road up to Inverness Castle.
"We're not going to Portfield Prison?"
The attorney-slash-Goth freak shook his spiked head. "Portfield's overcrowded, and the labdicks don't want to mix an accused murderer in with the rest of the remands, most of the wankers being held for nothing more than bar brawls. So the High Court plucked our father from Her Majesty's Prison and shoved him inside the bowels of the Sheriff Court."
By "Sheriff Court," Max meant Inverness Castle.
Originally built in the twelfth century, Inverness Castle was reconstructed in 1835 after nearly being razed by Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1746. Besides being a popular tourist attraction, the enormous Victorian red sandstone, sitting majestically on a low-lying cliff overlooking River Ness, also housed the Sheriff Court.
"Sheriffdom" dates back eight centuries to when the sheriff, an officer of the king, presided over all judicial matters in his district. Today, there are six sheriffs in Scotland, each a legally qualified judge overseeing civil cases in his region.
Angus's case involved murder, so its jurisdiction was left to the High Court, but the castle still had ample jail space to house the accused.
Max parked and we followed a flower-lined path to the main entrance. A bronze statue of Flora MacDonald, the woman who aided the escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie, stood on a stone pedestal on the castle lawn. Entering the castle gate, we bypassed the tourist line for the "Garrison Encounter," and headed for the Sheriff Court.
After twenty minutes of paperwork and an embarrassing body cavity search using a metal detector, a prison guard led us down a century's old winding stone stairwell into the bowels of the castle. Modern lighting mixed with ancient iron fittings as we approached another officer guarding a corridor of holding cells.
"Here tae see oor Angus, I take it. That'd be the honeymoon suite, last cell."
"You go on," Max said, "I'll meet you outside. Got a few calls to make."
The guard slid open the barred door, allowing me to pass. The first six cells on either side were empty.
The last one on the left held my father.
He was lying on a mattress, his back against the wall, reading a copy of the Inverness Courier. The years had turned his mane of jet-black hair to silver, and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, more salt than pepper, had replaced his goatee. Liver spots blotched his tan skin, crow's-feet cornering his eyes, but his gray-blue irises were still piercing and animated, his physique still imposing, though his waistline showed a slight paunch.
I stood outside his locked cell door, my body trembling from nerves and fatigue.
"Bloody daft reporters. Must've telt that coffin-dodgin' slag at least ten times aboot us bein' direct kin tae Sir William Wallace, but does he mention it? Hell no! Well, that's the last he gets oot o' me, I tell ye."
"Nice to see you, too," I managed.
He rolled off the mattress and stood, still light on his feet, but no longer a giant. "Ye sound like a Yank, but ye look like hell. Yer eyes are blood-red an' hollow, and I can smell the stench o' whisky in yer sweat."