Idea in Stone

Idea in Stone
Hamish MacDonald
Creative Commons Commons Deed
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 UK: Scotland
For more information on this license, please visit:
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/scotland
British Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Idea in Stone
MacDonald, Alistair Hamish
Printed and bound by the author.
ISBN - 1-59971-490-6
© 2006 Hamish MacDonald
Idea in Stone
Hamish MacDonald
"No, no -- 'tis no laughing matter; little by little, whatever your wishes
may be, you will destroy and undermine, until nothing of what makes
Scotland Scotland shall remain."

- John Gibson Lockhard, Memoirs of Sir Walter Scott

Chapter One
Cargo Cult
"Next."
Stefan approached the counter and placed his book face-down, sliding
it toward the checkout clerk like a ransom note. The young clerk in a
Book Block apron waved a beige gun over the book's barcode. The till
emitted a bleep and showed the price in blue. "How will you be paying
for this?"
Stefan handed his debit card to the clerk, his thumb over his name until
he had to let go. The clerk swiped the card and handed it back. With a
sigh, Stefan reached for it.
"Hey," said the clerk, taking a second look at the card, "you've got the
same last name as that cow who's always on TV. God, I hate her. The
CBC rolls her ass out on stage every chance they get. Did you see that
show on Sunday night? What was it? 'Down on the Reservation with
Delonia Mackechnie for Remembrance Day'? I've heard she's not really
even Indian. She's like this weird ugly dyke giraffe. I can't wait till she's
dead so I can stop seeing those stupid shows."
Stefan took back his card. The clerk picked up the book to put it in a
Book Block bag. He glanced at the title: Selfness: A Workbook for
Adult Children of Famous People.
"Oh," said the clerk, "sorry."
Stefan left the shop, pausing briefly at the door to stuff the book into a
waste-bin.
~

Stefan shut the door behind him and put his house-key into the pocket
of his heavy jacket. He raised his nose to the air: She's home. The scent
of ylang-ylang gave away Delonia's presence. Perhaps, he thought, he
could make it to his room.
Halfway through the dining room he paused. His mother was no
surprise, standing in one of her trademark outfits, which were
custom-made to suit not just her predilection for wild colours but her
unusual height, too. The dress matched the bright blues and yellows of
the tropical fish in the aquarium behind her. But someone else was with
her, a young man with one arm sunk up to the shoulder in the tank.
Delonia heard Stefan and turned around.
"Stefan! I'm glad you're home," she said with a big smile. Her top teeth
protruded like the cow-catcher of an old train. His mother had a weight
of presence, a charisma, but she was not pretty, and it hurt him every
time he noticed. As a public figure, she was often projected and
stretched and illuminated, adding to the effect. Other people liked her
well enough, at least those who admitted to buying her records and
watching her specials, so why should her looks matter? This particular
smile, though, he knew this one, the up-to-no-good smile.
"Stefan, this is Tyler," she said, gesturing to the young man, who
turned and extended his hand to shake Stefan's, then laughed and took
it back when he noticed it was wet with dirty fish tank water. His smile
flattened Stefan: wide, with teeth so white they verged on blue. His hair
and eyes were dark, his wet arm thicker and more developed than
Stefan could ever hope his might be, as if this mesomorph were a
whole other species.
"I met Tyler when he was cleaning the Jacksons' aquarium down the
street, and you know what a state ours is in." She turned to Tyler.
"Stefan won't even touch it when it gets like this. Oh, look, your shirt's
all wet with that filthy water. Stefan, take him downstairs, give him one
of your shirts, and put his in the dryer."
"Mom!"

"What? You're both boys. You look like you're about the same age, too.
Stefan is thirty-tw--"
"Excuse us, Tyler," said Stefan, pulling his mother by the arm toward
the kitchen. He closed the door behind him and spoke in a strained
whisper: "Mom, stop it. I know what you're trying to do, and I want
you to stop it."
"But Stefan, did you get a look at him? He stepped off the pages of one
of those magazines."
"Yeah, but I don't buy those magazines, do I? Besides, people like him
aren't interested in people like me."
"How do you know that?"