Page 48 of The Thing About My Prince

Jesus. My ass actually left the chair at this whistle blast.

The man shouts something back at her in an accent so heavy the only words I can make out are “shut” and “mouth.” But his tone would suggest there were at least a couple of profanities that I missed.

“Ye rinse those beggars off, Fergus McDonal,” Moira says. “Or I’ll disqualify yer quicker than ye can say ‘bog.’”

“Och, bog off,” he mutters under his breath, clear as day this time, as he scoops up his finds and moves them over to the buckets.

“They’ll try to get away wi’ murder if ye let ’em,” Moira warns me under her breath.

The official over by the action who’s been timing the treasure hunters’ searches blows his whistle. This is a very whistle-dense event.

“That was the final contestant,” he cries as a woman, fresh from the creek, walks past him toward us. The bottom half of her legs and arms are covered in mud. As is her face, apart from two clean patches around her eyes where her goggles were. She clearly took the bend-over approach to searching, because her bright pink swimsuit is completely clean.

It is quite the sight.

“Judges, tally the points,” the official shouts.

Once Fergus has provided us with his rinsed haul and the lady from the black lagoon has followed suit, I add up their scores. Moira writes them on her list, deducts everyone’s violation points, and calculates the winner.

The MC, who’s been wandering around with a microphone giving a running commentary of the events, comes and stands by our table.

His outfit has been dazzling me all day. It’s the obligatory tartan kilt, accompanied by shiny black wellies, a black T-shirt with the word BOGMEISTER in gold letters across his chest, a long black cloak that’s tied around his neck and almost reaches the ground and, for reasons I’m too afraid to ask in case it prompts some long historic story I won’t be able to follow, a cowboy hat.

The bogmeister raises the microphone to his lips. “Attention, bog lovers. Judge extraordinaire, Moira Bathhouse, will announce this year’s King or Queen o’ th’ Bog.”

All faces turn in our direction, some peopleshushing others.

Moira looks down at her clipboard and flips through the pages a couple of times as if double-checking her all-important figures.

The bogmeister holds the microphone in front of her as she scowls and all but rolls her eyes and just about suppresses a groan.

“This year’sKingo’ the Bog is…Fergus McDonal,” she announces with zero enthusiasm.

To cheers, applause, and what appears to be a kid playing a set of toy bagpipes, Fergus comes to claim his prizes—a King of the Bog sash and a trophy of a gold crown with splatters of brown plastic mud on it.

“And now,” the caped bogmeister says, “Moira, please tell us how much treasure remains in the bog.”

She gestures for me to give her the list where I’ve been crossing off the items as they’ve been turned in.

After examining it, she leans back into the microphone. “One item. One item remains in the bog.”

AnOooruns through the crowd.

“Now, in the time-honored tradition passed doon by our ancestors”—methinks the bogmeister is stretching the truth a little there—“when one item remains in the bog, we enter the free-for-all stage o’ the proceedings.”

People are already taking off their shoes and moving toward the edge of the bog.

Seriously? They all race into the mud to search for the last thing?

“And what’s the missing treasure they seek, Moira?” he asks. “What will deliver this year’s bonus prize?”

Moira consults the list again. “A hairy coo knitted by Sheena from The Highland Purl yarn shop.”

“Okay,” Bogmeister says, “Adults, kids, anybody who thinks they can find Sheena’s hairy coo?—”

He pauses to scowl at the smutty snickering coming from Fergus, who’s still standing here, sash on, holding his gold crown aloft.

“Anybody who thinks they can find the knitted toy, on ye marks?—”