Chapter 11: Confluence

      "Fancy meeting you out here in the forest," I gasp to the stylish woman stopped at the wheel of a green Lotus Seven with the top down.

"Going my way, old man?" she teases, flashing that brilliant smile I'd seen once before when proffering my umbrella.

     The half hour squatting under a basalt overhang after the white horse spooked in the driving rain had given me plenty of time to contemplate my predicament. Following the old nag back to retrieve my backpack would place me once again in the hands of the traitorous Rolland Beattison and his White Esk clan, and my Danner boots and the promise of U.S. dollars were all I had left to trade for a ride to Glasgow. There was still no phone service on the Black Esk side of the ridge, and the battery was down to 10% and counting. Luckily, I'd stuck my passport, credit card, and Covid verification in a pocket of my zip-offs that morning.

     I emerged from my cave into an evening sun peaking through the clouds breaking up in the west. Heading for that coral horizon would take me to the road to Lockerbie even if I lost the faint memory of a trail that was now all but washed out by the downpour. And where was I, after all, if not following in the footsteps of my ancestors who had been dispossessed by King James I in the border reiver wars at the turn of the sixteenth century?

     So I headed west into the gloaming on the prayer of a hitchhike ride once I reached the B703. After a mile of meandering down the darkness of a fir covered slope, I emerged into an open fen and caught a glimpse of a trickle in the waning light. It was barely what we'd call a creek back home, and the ragged trail brought me to the shallow ripples of an ancient ford. Over the squeak of my boots as I trudged up the west bank I barely heard the hum of a distant car engine and took off in a sprint.

     

     "What brings the maroon nun back over these hills, and in street clothes at that?", I query my nemesis turned potential savior. 

"I've got a class in Glasgow in the morning," she shrugs, bronze shoulders glowing in the lingering dusk.

"More contemplative yoga for beginners?" I guess, hoping for a chance to resume my lesson before a mid-morning flight.

"This time I'm the student, funny guy, and it's a course in tantric massage that I've waited a long time for."

"I could be a good receiver of some pre-workshop practice," I submit, leaning in with hands on knees.

"Then hop in, Mr. John Bateson, and we'll see where this road goes."

The End