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Show 10-9 One morning, she took down from the wall a picture that I had always loved. It was called the "Last Piper" and showed one of the Highland heroes of Culloden. He was dressed in blood-red kilts and black bearskin hat, and he was carrying a bagpipe over his shoulder. He stood on a path that circled a low dim hill and he turned back for one last look before following his mates over the hill into the wilderness beyond, Grandmother and Grandfather had often told me of this battle, where their families had fought and where Scotland's pride had been vanquished. Now Grandmother held the picture in front of her and called me to come sit by her. She wiped its dusty glass with her apron. "This is your Uncle Paul, Annie. A Highland boy, going over the last hill. A brave lad." I could see no resemblance between this dark figure on a foreign hill and my slim, elegant uncle who had always worn the latest suit and had hated the Scottish festivals my grandparents loved so dearly. But I said nothing, only watched while Grandmother rubbed the frame of the picture and polished the glass. "Never forget him, Annie. He was a true hero. Dying bravely and in valor true." I recognized the phrase from the slogan that the newspapers had printed over the casulty lists that came out each week. "Yes, Grandmother. I won't forget." |