Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  Chapter Eight

  The Man’s the Gowd

  Is there, for honest poverty,

  That hangs his head, and a’ that?

  The coward-slave, we pass him by,

  We daur be poor for a’ that!

  For a’ that, an’ a’ that,

  Our toils obscure, and a’ that,

  The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,

  The man’s the gowd for a’ that!

  —Robert Burns, “A Man’s a Man for All That”

  In the same way that Gwendolyn’s fingers seemed to unlock the music in the strings of my harp, listening to her play unlocked something inside me.

  Something had happened deep in my soul. I greeted people differently after that, not as a visiting stranger but as someone who had a reason to be here.

  That reason, strange to say, was innocent little Gwendolyn.

  I didn’t even know her last name. Yet I felt that I had come here for a purpose. And whatever it was she was part of it.

  I don’t know how word spread, but gradually people seemed to know about me. When I was out walking, or when I nodded and smiled in the market, they occasionally said things like, “You must be the lady with the harp.”

  After returning from a walk, Mrs. Gauld handed me a note with a name and a phone number.

  “Adela Cruickshank cam roon,” she said. “She heard ye were bidin here. She has always wanted tae play the harp, ye ken. She wondered gien ye wud gie her a fyow lessons while ye were here. An’—”

  She paused. An embarrassed look came over her face.

  “What is it, Mrs. Gauld?” I asked.

  She smiled and glanced down. “I dinna like to ask,” she said. “But my mum’s in hospital. She isna so weel and I wondered, that is gien ye dinna mind, gien ye might play a wee sang or twa for her. She loves music, ye ken, an’ I’m thinkin’ it micht cheer her up.”

  I smiled. “I would be happy to.”

  That same afternoon I went with Mrs. Gauld when she drove to see her mother at the hospital about five miles away. I took my harp into her mother’s room and played for perhaps an hour. Finally I got up to take a break and stretch my legs. The door of the room had been open. When I walked outside the corridor was filled with people listening, nurses and doctors and patients in wheelchairs they had brought out of their rooms so they could hear. When they saw me, some of them began clapping, then everyone joined in. Though I thought I had been playing just to Mrs. Gauld’s mother, half the hospital had been listening! Several asked when I would be back.

  The next day, Adela Cruickshank came to the B and B for her first lesson.

  “Don’t I recognize you from somewhere?” I asked as Mrs. Gauld introduced us.

  “Aye, mum, I wark at the post, ken,” replied the lady I had just met as Adela. “I hae seen ye a time or twa.”

  “Yes, of course—that’s it,” I said.

  Adela was so thrilled she asked if she could come the next day and practice what I had shown her.

  All this time I hadn’t seen little Gwendolyn again.

  That afternoon, about the same time as on the two previous occasions when they had been out for walks, I again sought my favorite bench with my harp, hoping for another encounter that might prove as magical as before.

  You might think I would tire of playing. But I never did. I had enough songs to occupy me that I could play for hours without repeating one. Even if I had repeated, it wouldn’t have mattered. Music itself was its own delight.

  It was a sore temptation to try to recall to mind and re-create what I had heard coming out of my harp beneath little Gwendolyn’s fingers. But I did not want to spoil the memory by trying to capture something that wasn’t mine at all. To try to lay hold of it would have been as futile as trying to snatch hold of a passing breeze upon my face uplifted from the fragrant currents of the sea. Gwendolyn’s unknown random music had been a melodic zephyr blown ethereally from unknown regions to enjoy for a moment and then to remember with wonder.

  I had been working on a new song of my own since my arrival in Port Scarnose. Its melodies were still coming to me in bits and pieces, as new songs do. They rarely reveal themselves complete and fully formed. Tunes, like words, come in phrases, sometimes in sentences, very occasionally in whole paragraphs, but never in complete chapters. You have to play them over and over, massage them and try out little differences and changes until you’ve got them just right. As I continued to work on my song, now and then a few notes and phrases crept in that reminded me of that magical passing breeze. I did not try to remember its melodic fragrances, but when such fragments came I allowed them to sprinkle my own song with mysterious hints that maybe the music was not entirely my own but was coming from someplace that even I did not altogether understand.

  It’s difficult to name a song before it is ready. It seems presumptuous to give it a name when it remains nebulous and unformed. But the song that was forming during those days had named itself.

  It would be “Gwendolyn’s Song.”

  I sat down to play. It was a different kind of day than most—clear but still and calm. Not a breath of wind disturbed the surface of the sea. Out beyond the shore break, the gentle swell rose and fell as if it were an undulating liquid surface of rich blue-green glass. If ever there was a day to spy dolphins breaking the surface, today would be that day. The air was heavy and sultry. It felt like a calm before an invisible coming storm, though I could see no hint of weather on the horizon anywhere. Slowly I began to play. The strings seemed to vibrate with added energy from the dense atmosphere. I felt the sound carrying on the air, almost echoing back upon me as if I were in an outdoor amphitheater with very strange acoustics.

  How could open air have acoustics at all? Yet somehow that’s what it felt like.

  I played with vigor, enjoying the full sound, hoping maybe that little Gwendolyn, wherever she was at that moment, might hear and might persuade her mother to come find “the harp lady” again. I was haunted by what had happened with her. I was eager to put those little fingers at my harp again. If indeed she was one of those rare ones endowed with the mystical gifts of the savant, someone should know so that it could be explored further.

  I don’t know how long I played, thinking of little Gwendolyn and working on my own song that she had inspired. Probably thirty or forty minutes.

  Gradually my fingers fell quiet. Perhaps that sounds funny to say, as if my fingers were thinking for themselves apart from my brain, as I had said about Gwendolyn’s. But in a way that’s not so far wrong. When I am making up tunes, I play spontaneously as I feel. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it doesn’t. Music flowing from within is like that—unpredictable. Sometimes I have the feeling that as they move along the strings my fingers are more in tune with the music that is struggling to find expression than is my brain. Perhaps that was Gwendolyn’s secret too.

  As my hands quieted, I realized that Gwendolyn’s song had revealed all it had to give for the moment. I knew there was more. But I was not meant to hear it yet. It would come in its own time and its own way.

  I sat quiet and peaceful. Sensing a song rising up from deep places inside you is an emotional experience that, while causing a rush of exuberance also brings a depletion of creative energy that leaves you happily weary. Afterward all you can do is sit and relish the moment.

  On this occasion I didn’t have that luxury. Suddenly I was shocked out of my reflective silence by a man’s voice.

  “That was truly beautiful,” it said, softly but loud enough that I could hear.

  I spun around, thinking someone must have crept up the path behind me. But no one was in sight!

  More surprised than frightened, I turned around frantically. Where had the voice come from! Thinking I had imagined it, all of a sudden a man’s head rose fifteen or twenty feet in front of me from down over the cliff. Its owner turned to face me, then scrambled up over the steep grass and rock and jumped onto the level where I sat watching him in amazement. He w
as slightly taller than average with fair skin and a full head of bushy red thatch, of stocky though well-proportioned build, probably in his early forties and dressed in blue slacks, a blue plaid wool shirt, and walking boots.

  “I can’t remember when I have heard anything so perfectly one with its natural surroundings,” he said, “so in harmony with God’s creation.” What Scottish accent the man possessed was subdued, refined, intermingled perhaps, though I was certainly no expert, with educational influence from south of the border.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked, staring blankly back at him as if he were an apparition that had appeared out of thin air. “I had no idea anyone was within miles!”

  Reading astonishment and shock on my face at his unexpected appearance, the man smiled broadly, then broke into a gentle good-natured laugh.

  “I apologize. I see that I startled you,” he said. “Like you, I had no idea anyone was nearby. When you began to play I did not want to disturb you. So I remained where I was and allowed the wonderful music to flow over me.”

  “But… I still…” I began. “Where were you?”

  “Just there, down over the edge,” he said. “In my own private little hideaway.”

  “Oh, like this bench is for me,” I said.

  “Is this where you come to be alone?” he asked.

  “In a way,” I replied, at last beginning to relax. “It’s not exactly private, but it has become a special place for me. This is where I first played my harp in Scotland.”

  “You are visiting the region, I take it?”

  “You can tell I’m not a native?” I said.

  “I confess”—he nodded with an engaging smile—“there is a littlesomething I detect in your accent that gives you away. American?”

  “I’m from Canada… Alberta.”

  “Ah, right… America of the north. Of Scottish descent?”

  “I think possibly. I know many Canadians are, but I know little about my roots.”

  “How long are you here… are you traveling about?”

  “I’ll be here another week-and-a-half. I traveled at first, but I plan to remain in Port Scarnose until it’s time for me to go.”

  “Well, perhaps we shall meet again. We must think alike since this same spot on the coastline draws us both.”

  “I still cannot see where you were,” I said. “It looks as if the cliff drops off all the way to the water.”

  “Some time ago, I discovered a little crook or hollow in the rock,” said the man. “It’s nicely padded by thick tufts of shore grasses… just down over there,” he added, pointing to where he had appeared. “It’s the most marvelous little spot. It reminds me of old hymns like ‘Shelter in the Time of Storm’ and ‘In the Cleft of the Rock.’ From it I command a stunning view of the entire coast, as well as the rocks and shore below. I nestle into my little cliff-hole. The birds fly about, sometimes so close I can nearly touch them. It is perfectly secluded. People pass by along the path, but no one suspects the existence of my small sanctuary. I come here regularly to sit, to pray, to think, to read, sometimes to write.”

  I glanced down and now saw the slender volume in his hand. “What were you reading today?” I asked.

  “Oh, this,” he said. “An old fifteenth-century devotional book—Kempis’s The Imitation of Christ.”

  “Oh… well I certainly never dreamed anyone was around!” I laughed. “Otherwise I would never have played so freely.”

  “Then I am glad I did not reveal myself! It was magical. There I sat gazing out over the sea. Slowly, as if out of the very heavens themselves, I found myself enwrapped in the most angelic music I had ever heard. Imagine my shock! It had to be as great as yours. I knew somebody was making music, and nearby. I simply took it as a gift. Nor did I recognize the tone at first as that of a harp. I didn’t know what I was hearing. Of course, that makes it all the better—the aura of uncertainty adding to the mystery. What kind of harp is it?” he asked, looking it over.

  “A folk harp,” I answered. “Here in Scotland you would call it a clarsach.”

  He nodded, examining it with interest. “Tell me, what was that tune?” he asked. “It truly carried me away. I could have listened forever.”

  “Just something I am working on,” I replied, embarrassed at his lavish praise.

  “Your own composition!”

  I nodded sheepishly.

  He stared at me a moment, his mouth open just a crack. “I am stunned,” he said at last. “It really was most extraordinary.”

  He paused briefly. He seemed to be thinking.

  “Would you…” he began after a moment, “—would you consider playing for our local congregation?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said, puzzled.

  “In church, I mean. Sometimes the organ music Sunday after Sunday, it can be monotonous. I am always looking for something fresh. I know everyone would enjoy it. More than enjoy it—they would be thrilled.”

  “Are you the music director or something?” I asked.

  “Actually, I am the curate. Iain Barclay at your service,” he said, reaching out his hand. I shook it, though I have to admit I was startled all over again to discover that I had been speaking to a minister. He certainly didn’t look like one! “The invitation is sincere,” Curate Barclay went on. “I would love to have you play for us. It would be wonderful.”

  “I don’t know,” I said hesitantly. “I’m not sure I would be comfortable playing in church.”

  “Why not?”

  The question was simple enough, but it caught me off guard.

  “I, uh… I’m not a church person.”

  “A church person,” he repeated. “What exactly do you mean?”

  “A believer, I guess… I don’t profess, that is, I don’t think I would call myself a Christian—or at least a practicing one.”

  “Oh… hmm, I see,” he said, nodding slowly. He seemed surprised. “From listening to your music,” he added, “I assumed otherwise.”

  “Why would you think that?” I asked.

  “It’s just that I felt the Spirit of God in your music.”

  “I doubt if it was that,” I said, half laughing. “God and I aren’t exactly on intimate terms.”

  “He could still make music through you. His Spirit resides in all men and women, whether they acknowledge it or not.”

  “I doubt that’s true in my case,” I said. I probably sounded a little cynical.

  “Well, no matter. I’m not bothered. My invitation still stands.”

  “Even if I don’t go along with what the church stands for? You would still want me to play?”

  “Absolutely. I would be delighted. I believe that all music is God’s. After all, where does music come from?”

  “I guess you would say it comes from God.”

  “Of course. Music is a reflection of God’s goodness and joy. Cows don’t make music, or zebras or monkeys or any other animal. Hmm… there are birds—maybe that destroys my point! But I think I would still maintain that man makes music because we are created to express God’s goodness and joy.”

  “Maybe it’s because we are thinking, intelligent, creative beings. Music is just a natural expression of who we are.”

  “I agree completely,” rejoined the curate. “And who are we but beings created in God’s image? Man’s creativity couldn’t have come from nowhere. Every note of every song that comes out of us is a reminder that we are made in the image of God.”

  “I still think you are reading too much into it,” I insisted. “I was just making up a song.”

  “Perhaps you were praising him without knowing it,” persisted the minister. “Now that I learn it was your own composition, I am doubly convinced that God’s Spirit is in you. If such music is in your soul, he must be there, too, giving birth to your music.”

  This was getting to be too much! I had a religious fanatic on my hands. Though I must admit, he was not like any Christian I had ever met. He was so full
of enthusiasm but didn’t seem anxious to convert me or convince me to his point of view. Strange as it is to say, he didn’t seem to care whether I believed in God or not.

  “Do you believe that everything good, like music, comes from God?” I said after a moment. “Even from people who don’t believe in him?”

  “Of course—absolutely,” he answered with that same happy enthusiasm. “Where else would the good come from? God is the Author and Creator and Composer,” he added with a grin, “of all the good in the universe.”

  “If you say so!” I laughed. “I must admit, I have never heard a minister talk quite so… I don’t know, with such optimism about, you know, about God and the world and religion and Christianity. It seems they’re usually more intent on sin and hell and the wrath of God and getting people saved and all that.”

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. The man called Iain Barclay continued to be full of surprises.

  “Not enough of the hellfire in me to suit you?” he said, still laughing.

  “It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just different from what I’ve been exposed to.”

  His laughter slowly subsided and the smile gradually faded from his lips. He grew thoughtful.

  “A common misperception of the Christian faith,” he said. “Sadly, what you have voiced is what most people are exposed to rather than the true essence of Christianity. There are those of my own congregation, too, who find me as disconcerting as you do. The dour face of Scottish Calvinism persists. They don’t want their Christianity quite so embracing as mine. They like to talk about God’s love, but with long faces. They recognize that there is such a thing as the joy of the Lord, but they never forget that it is reserved for only the elect… the joy of the long face I call it. They like their curates sober minded.”

  “Well, I can see that they got more than they bargained for in you!” I laughed. “So how do you handle it?”