So I sat and sat, taking in the peaceful panorama of the sea and its warm, fragrant breezes.
As I absently gazed about I could see the shadow of the black clouds moving toward me. In fact, the roofs and gray stones of Findectifeld were no longer in sunlight as when I had driven through. They were now engulfed in gray darkness. I looked out in the opposite direction. Port Scarnose was still bathed in sunlight, reflecting brightly off its stone and slate.
Suddenly a gull flew by in front of me. It was so close the motion startled me. As it passed, it turned its head briefly toward me. I almost had the sense that it was looking at me, as if it had been sent to give me a message, to tell me something.
Just as quickly it was gone, arching high then diving down over the cliff toward the water. What a magical moment!
I continued staring out over the sea. I knew right then that this was where I would play my harp.
But I hardly had time to ponder it further. I was jolted from my reverie by a gust of wind in my face. Suddenly it had become very chilly.
Again I glanced toward Findectifeld.
I was shocked to see the black clouds from the west directly over it. Slanting rain was pouring over the town in a torrent.
“Oh, no!” I shouted, jumping up. It was coming toward me, and fast!
I started running back down the hill toward Port Scarnose. Even as I ran the brightness faded. Wind whipped around my feet as I went. Within seconds the whole village in front of me turned dark gray. Offshore, what had moments before been a spectacular blue-green ocean had become a gray-and-black cauldron covered with whitecaps churning its surface into a frenzy.
I glanced hurriedly back, almost as if being chased by some dream-monster. The bench where I had been sitting was engulfed in the downpour!
The storm was coming more rapidly than I could run. I laughed in terror and tried to hurry faster.
Then it came. Rain poured down upon me in buckets. I had known it could really rain in Scotland. But I had never experienced anything like this!
I reached my car seconds later. Already I was soaked to the skin, and laughing in pure delight.
I climbed inside, panting from the run, and tried to catch my breath. Water dripping from my hair and down my face, I started the car and drove to one of the B and Bs I had seen. I parked in front, and went up to the door and rang the bell.
A lady answered, looking a little surprised as I stood there, my hair a mess and my clothes hanging limp all over me.
“Hello,” I said. “I am looking for a room.”
“An’ hoo lang will ye be stayin’, lassie?”
Lassie… I liked the sound of that!
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe a day or two… or maybe even three,” I added, laughing.
“Ah richt. Then intil the hoosie wi’ ye. Luiks like ye’ll be needin’ some dryin’ oot as weel.”
Chapter Six
Journey Comes Home
How contented was my lot,
In the lang, lang syne,
In my cosy Highland cot,
In the lang, lang syne,
When wi’ shoeless feet, I strayed.
—“The Lang, Lang Syne”
The day after my arrival it rained nearly all day. Even the rain could not dampen my spirits. Though I spent most of the time in my room reading a Lillian Beckwith book, I got out for short walks whenever the downpour let up for a while. I thought that everything seemed changed now. Having decided to stay a few days, I looked at people with different eyes. Did they seem friendlier because of a change in me, because I was more cheery? Or was there some other difference here from where I had been earlier?
Maybe both. I didn’t know.
The next morning dawned without a cloud to be seen anywhere. The storm had passed in the night and left not a trace behind except sparkling wet ground. The streets and gravel paths were mostly dry by midmorning.
At eleven the sun was high and warm and I was ready to go out with my harp. I took it out of its case for the first time and tuned it. Then I drove to the edge of town and struck out on the path along the headland, lugging my harp case in my hand. The last time I had been here I had been running for my life to escape the rain. But today I was in no hurry.
I sat down on the same bench as before. I was glad no one was around. Today I needed to be alone. I gazed out on the gorgeous blue North Sea in front of me, so peaceful and fragrant and colorful once more after the stormy tumult of two days earlier.
At last I took a deep breath, then removed my harp from its case and attached its short legs. I set them down on the ground and pulled the top of the harp to me. I set my fingers to the familiar strings and slowly began to play, softly at first, then gradually gaining assurance and allowing the music to come.
I played a few chords and random arpeggios at first, just feeling the music of the moment. Gradually some of my favorite Celtic melodies began to come out through my fingers—“Loch Lomond,” “Will Ye No Come Back Again,” “Road to the Isles,” “Skye Boat Song,” “Wild Mountain Thyme,” “Dark Island”… they poured out in succession as if being drawn from the harp by the land and the sea and the mournful, musical, melancholy history of this place.
Then suddenly as I played, the lonely, shrill cry of a gull pierced the air from somewhere out over the edge of land. Almost the same instant the crash of a wave echoed off the rocks at the shoreline below.
My fingers stilled. The music had entered my heart, and it was enough.
I sat in silence. After several minutes I realized I was weeping.
I almost felt as if Journey were saying through its music, “I am home at last.”
Chapter Seven
Gwendolyn
Gaily through the scented wood
Pass’d a maiden smiling sweetly –
Graceful, happy, fair, and good,
Stole she there my heart completely.
—“Maiden by the Silver Dee”
After the day with my harp on the headland trail, and the release of emotion that had surged from within me, all thoughts of leaving Port Scarnose were gone. I knew where I would spend the rest of my time in Scotland. I had no desire to travel anywhere else.
This was where Scotland’s soul had touched me.
Over the following days I walked the streets and familiarized myself with every inch of the village. I got to know every path along the sea in both directions. I continued past the bench of the rainstorm where I had later played my harp, all the way to Findectifeld and back. I also walked and explored to the east. I discovered Bow Fiddle Rock and the Whale’s Mouth and Jenny’s Well and the Preacher’s Cave and Florimel’s Rock and the Bore Crag and Duncan’s Dune, and eventually walked along the beach past the rocks known as the Three Kings to the neighboring village of Crannoch and back on the old railway viaduct.
The rugged end of the Scar Nose promontory where the village sat was only a stone’s throw from the B and B. I walked along its cliff, looking down on its huge rocks and caves and the little cove at the base of the town, several times a day. I never tired of it. What a spectacular setting for a town—right above the water’s edge. When it rained I played my harp or read in my room, or drove to the headland and sat relishing the view of the tempestuous sea, as beautiful stirred up wild by a storm as it was on a bright sunny day.
I visited more and more with the lady who owned the B and B, and she invited me to have supper, or “tea,” with her for as long as I was here. I greeted neighbors whose faces were becoming familiar as I passed with more regularity on my walks. The lady at the market, whose nametag read Cora MacKay, began to recognize me and asked why I was here and how long I was staying. After that we began chatting like old friends. I suppose I didn’t really know anyone, but I began to feel somehow part of the little community that was Port Scarnose. Whether I was really part of it I almost didn’t care. It gave me a feeling of security, of belonging.
The Doric dialect of the northeast was difficult at first—e
specially when people spoke among themselves. I couldn’t make out a word of it! But once I opened my mouth and they heard my accent, most people slowed down and spoke “English” to me, though still so heavily accented by Scots that it often took me twice through to understand.
I soon realized that Cora at the market had two distinct modes of communication—the one she used with locals and friends, and the one she used with me. A lady came in when I was looking over the different varieties of oatcakes from the local bakeries—one from Portsoy, another from Huntly, and others. Though the conversation at the counter, as I overheard it, sounded intriguing, even mysterious, I could make out only about one word in ten.
“… sax ’ear syne the day… ne’er forget that day… an ill-end that wis…”
“Aye, peer Maggie… ne’er got ower it…”
“… an’ why for no… as bonnie a lass like her Winny… she was aye ill-fashed ower it…”
“Aye… but haena ony mither the richt tae greet…”
“… tae gang oot ilka ’ear wi’ flo’ers… tis a fearsome place tae gang alane, ken… wadna mysel’…”
“… they say the ruins is full o’ the ghaists o’ pirates wha were ill-cleckit…”
Suddenly they both went silent as the door opened and the bell rang. A woman walked in. I glanced toward the door but couldn’t see her face. All I heard was, “Fine day, Olivia… ,” followed by more Scots I couldn’t make heads or tails of. When the woman who had just come in left a little later, the two women resumed, though in low tones.
“… haena doubt she kens the day weel enouch…”
“… there aye wis bad bleed atween them twa…”
“… Maggie had aye nae eese for the likes o’…”
But then several more people came in and that was the end of my eavesdropping.
I was out on the same bench again with my harp the next afternoon. By then I had taken my harp to play along the shoreline at a number of places. But this would always be my favorite special place.
I hadn’t noticed anyone about, but the path was a well-traversed route and the Scots were great walkers. As I sat facing the sea and playing, I heard footsteps running along the trail behind me. I paused and turned around toward them. A girl of nine or ten, with bright red hair, was running toward me with an uneven gait. I thought she might be the same girl I had seen on the walk the first evening I had driven through the village, but I couldn’t be sure. There were redheaded children everywhere.
She slowed as she saw me look at her, a bashful look spreading over her face. Slowly she continued her approach.
“What’s that?” she asked, speaking slowly.
“It’s a harp,” I answered. “Have you never seen one before?”
“No. You sound funny.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s because I’m not from around here,” I said. “I come from far away. I’m visiting.”
I had already detected, from her look and the sound of her voice, that something was wrong with the girl. I couldn’t tell if she was ill or a bit slow. Her body seemed to move in an odd way, almost as if she had had a stroke and was partially paralyzed, though she seemed too young for that. She looked at me a few seconds, still puzzled by my odd accent, then glanced at my harp. Throughout our brief conversation she had been inching closer.
I played several chords and ended with a big swooping glissando. Her face lit up.
“That’s bonnie,” she said. “That’s rale bonnie!”
“Would you like to try it?” I asked.
Her eyes lit up again. She looked up into my face as if to see if I meant it. I nodded and smiled. Tentatively she stretched out a pudgy forefinger and plucked at one of the strings. The sound of it almost seemed to frighten her. Quickly she pulled away, though never once took her eyes off the strings. I waited. Gradually out came her hand again like the shy head of a snail creeping from its hiding place. This time she reached out and pulled her finger along the strings toward her, creating her own improvised little glissando.
She giggled at the sound and again drew back into her shell. But her face was bright. She was obviously enchanted by what she had done.
More footsteps and a voice interrupted us.
“Gwendolyn, come away!” it said. “Don’t bother the lady—come here.”
I turned and saw a woman about my own age, perhaps a few years older, hurrying toward us with a look of annoyance on her face. As she reached us, she looked me over briefly. She seemed to be looking more deeply inside me than I was comfortable with.
“I’m sorry, missus,” she said. “She’s much too forward. She’s always running off and making a nuisance of herself.—Come, Gwendolyn.”
She took the girl’s hand and pulled her away. The girl made no objection and went with her compliantly.
“It was really no trouble,” I said. “I don’t mind. If she would like—”
“No, missus. She has to learn to mind her own affairs.”
The woman hurried the girl off down the path toward Port Scarnose. I began playing “Will Ye No Come Back Again,” hardly thinking of the significance of it. As the sound reached her, whether she understood the words or not, the girl turned and cast one more glance back toward me. I smiled again. The next moment the path took them round a high bush of gorse and they disappeared from sight.
All that day, and the next, I was haunted by visions of the sweet little girl called Gwendolyn. The expression of joy on her face from the simple motion of drawing a solitary finger across the strings of my harp was testimony both to the magic of music itself, and to the mystery of the harp as mankind’s most ancient instrument by which to express that music.
I dearly wanted to see her again and set her mother’s mind at ease. I continued making my little pilgrimage out to the bench, more frequently now, several times a day, hoping to find them out again.
Finally I saw them. They came walking toward me, hand in hand, this time just leaving Port Scarnose. The moment the girl saw me on the bench, she pulled her hand loose and dashed up the path.
“Hello, Gwendolyn,” I said.
She seemed startled to hear me call her by name. She stopped abruptly and stared at me. Within seconds the woman came up behind her.
“She has been talking about nothing but the harp lady ever since that day we saw you,” she said.
“I hoped I would see you again,” I said.
“May I play your bonnie thing again?” the girl blurted out.
I saw the woman begin to object, but I smiled quickly. “Please,” I said, “I don’t mind. Would you really like to, Gwendolyn?” I asked, turning to the girl. Her eyes were as wide as two saucers.
“Come here,” I said. “Stand in front of me.”
I took her hand and pulled her toward me and made room for her to stand between me and the harp with her back to the bench. I reached my arms around her. As I did, she relaxed back into my embrace. I pulled the harp back to us.
“Now then,” I said, “put the fingers of your left hand here—”
With my own left hand I set her tiny little fingers on the strings.
“—and your right hand here.”
I did the same with her right. With my own fingers I strummed a few strings randomly to show her what to do, then pulled my hands away.
“Now you do it,” I said.
Without a moment’s hesitation, her little fingers began to pluck at the strings. For a minute or two the sounds were random and dissonant. But almost as if there were eyes in the tips of her fingers, she seemed to sense the tones of the different-colored strings of the scale. In all my years of teaching youngsters I had never seen such a thing. She began plucking individual strings, then two or three at a time, making actual chords. Within another minute or two actual melodies and harmonies were vibrating from the soundboard.
I listened awestruck. I wish I could have seen her face. But sitting behind her I couldn’t, and I did not want to disturb the magic of the moment. Even without
seeing her, I could tell from watching her fingers that inside she was absorbing the mechanics of the instrument in a way that transcended logic. She wasn’t thinking about what she was doing. It was just happening from deep within her subconscious. Her fingers were finding and playing genuine music.
She played and played, her fingers growing more comfortable all the time, her head gently rocking back and forth to the music she was making. I sat in a trance.
By this time I had all but forgotten her mother where she stood beside us. I can only assume that she was as astonished as I was. When at last I remembered her, I glanced briefly toward her. I expected to see tears in her eyes, but instead she just stood stoically, apparently unmoved.
Gradually Gwendolyn’s fingers began to slow, then they fell silent.
“That’s all,” she said. “The song is over.”
“That was beautiful, Gwendolyn,” I said. “What song was that?”
“I don’t know. Gwendolyn just played it.”
She wriggled out from behind the harp and returned to the woman’s side. The woman just stood, then slowly shook her head but said nothing more and turned to go. The expression on her face was impossible to read.
“I am staying at Mrs. Gauld’s bed-and-breakfast,” I said. “I would like to see you both again.”
The woman nodded but without indication of a smile, then took Gwendolyn’s hand and they continued on their way. I sat for a while longer but did not play again. At last I packed up my things and left. It didn’t seem fitting to play again right then. Gwendolyn’s music needed to linger in the air. I was positively enchanted with the girl!
I took my harp back to my room, then went out for a long thoughtful walk along the coastline in the opposite direction beyond Crannoch. There I discovered the trail I had read about past the pet cemetery to the Salmon Bothy. Finally I returned on the headland, beside the caravan park and along the viaduct back to Port Scarnose.
Angel Harp: A Novel Page 4