Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  “Uh… thank you,” I said, trying to smile. “You’ve helped me already. It’s been good just to be able to talk about things of belief again, without any pressure, and to try to put my past into some kind of perspective.”

  “You’ll have to tell me about that past someday, if you want to. I am intrigued. But now do you want to tell me why you’re in Mrs. Gauld’s doghouse?” asked Iain.

  I laughed at his abrupt change of subject. He was determined not to force the conversation toward spiritual things unless I initiated it.

  I told him about the invitation to play at the castle, and Mrs. Gauld’s visit, although omitting what she had said about the duke and Gwendolyn. The moment I mentioned the duke, Iain’s mood seemed to change. He grew quieter and more thoughtful. I wondered if he was going to give me the same dour warnings Mrs. Gauld had.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I decided to go anyway,” I said. “I couldn’t help it—I was curious. To play in a castle… that kind of opportunity doesn’t come along every day. So I went.”

  “How was it?”

  “Weird!” I laughed. I told him about the concert with no audience.

  He nodded, looking as if nothing I was saying surprised him.

  “The duke is something of a recluse,” he said. “I have no doubt that he was listening to you from behind the dividers.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  He nodded. “Actually, I know the castle fairly well,” he said. “I am familiar with the room you were describing. There is a separate sitting area on that far side of the room with its own private entrance. Unless the entire room is needed for a large gathering—and to my knowledge there has not been anything like that for years—it is usually partitioned off exactly as you saw it. The duke was no doubt sitting out of sight sipping a whisky and soda and able to hear you perfectly.”

  “That’s a little creepy!” I said. “I had no idea. Why is he like that? He sounds like Howard Hughes or something.”

  Iain did not answer immediately. He glanced away. “Like I said,” he responded after a few seconds, turning back toward me, “in a small village like this… wheels within wheels.”

  Somehow I knew his cryptic answer had to do with Gwendolyn. But something kept me from probing further right then. Again Iain turned the conversation quickly in another direction.

  “Have you done Aberdeen?” he asked.

  “What do you mean, done it?”

  “You know—walked the mat as they call it, explored the city, toured it?”

  “No,” I replied. “When I was driving about before, I was nervous about the cities. I didn’t go near Glasgow or Edinburgh and got out of Inverness as soon as possible.”

  “Aberdeen is wonderful! How would you like to drive in with me on Saturday? It’s only a little over an hour. We’ll make a day of it. I’ll show you around, we’ll walk Union Street and have an early tea and be back home by eight, in time for me to get my beauty sleep before church the next morning.”

  “Ministers worrying about their beauty sleep!” I laughed. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “A bad figure of speech!”

  “You don’t have to work on your sermon on Saturday?”

  “I don’t work on sermons. I have an idea of what I think God wants me to say and a general outline of my progression of thought. Other than that, I let the Spirit lead, as the saying goes. So what do you say… Aberdeen?”

  “Yes—that sounds like fun. I’d love to.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Picturesque Guide

  Oh, the auld hoose, the auld hoose,

  What tho’ the rooms were wee,

  Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,

  And bairnies fu’ o’ glee.

  And wild rose and the jessamine

  Still hang upon the wa’

  Hoo mony cherished memories

  Do they sweet flow’rs reca’.

  —“The Auld Hoose”

  I’d bought most of the postcards and guidebooks and local paraphernalia that I had seen in the various shops of Port Scarnose and Crannoch. Not only were the Scots proud of their history, they were proud of their towns. Every village boasted posters and mugs and booklets and pens and keychains and maps and fridge magnets as if it was Britain’s number one tourist destination. Yet down the road five miles was another village with its own range of touristy, historical products making the same claim! I had never seen anything like Scotland’s extreme pride of place—every place—in Canada or the U.S.

  There was, however, something distinct about Port Scarnose and Crannoch. The presence of Castle Buchan and its historic role in Scotland’s past, along with the “Auld Kirk,” gave a stature and prestige to the region that was unique. The beautiful coastline, with its impressive bay and beach suitable for swimming and dolphin watching, completed the package. Ever since my arrival I had been perusing my stack of local books—Leisure Trails Around Port Scarnose, Duncan Wood’s Crannoch, A Pictorial History, Heritage Tales, More Heritage Tales, Recollections of the Past, and James Addison’s wonderful walking CDs and pamphlets.

  The Crannoch, Deskmill, and Port Scarnose Heritage Group, who had published most of the books, had been busy!

  Because of my love for the sea, nearly all my walks had been in one direction or another along the coastline. When I woke up the next morning to a warm sunny day, however, the fragrance of newly cut hay and straw from inland drew me. While still lying in bed, I heard the far-off lowing of a cow. I knew that the harvest would soon be under way on the farms throughout the region. The fields of grain were rich with golds and yellows and browns. I decided that on this day I would strike out on one of the inland trails toward the three local “bins,” or hills, that stood overlooking the three coastal villages—Little Bin, the Bin of Crannoch, and the Hill of Maud.

  None of them were high. The tallest, Crannoch Bin, was only a thousand feet above sea level with an easy walker’s trail circling around to the top. Yet the brochure said it was high enough to command a view along the coast of the Moray Firth all the way from Lossiemouth to Logie Head, and on a clear day across to the northernmost reaches of Sutherland on the far side of the firth. With binoculars on the right day, some said, you could even see the Orkneys.

  I set out about ten. As I left the village, walking toward me was a lady whose plump frame and blond hair I thought I recognized.

  “Hello,” I said, slowing as we reached one another, “aren’t you… it’s Mrs. Maccallum, isn’t it, from Mrs. Gauld’s.”

  “Yes, mum—I’m Tavia Maccallum.” She nodded, and immediately I remembered her smile. “An’ ye’re Miss Buchan—I mind meetin’ ye. But I’m nae Mrs., ken—I’m nae married.”

  “And I’m not Miss either.” I smiled. “Or a missus. I’m a widow, actually. My husband died several years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, mum.”

  “Thank you. Were you out for a walk?”

  “Jist up tae the cemetery, there up the main road, ken,” she said, glancing behind her. “I was jist puttin’ some wee flo’ers on the stanes o’ my daddy’s grave. ’Tis his birthday the day.”

  “Oh, I see. How long has he been gone?”

  “Mony a year, ken. He died fan I was yoong. But I mind his birthday ilka year. Ye’re oot for a walk yersel’?”

  “Yes”—I nodded—“I usually walk along the headland there, between Findectifeld and Port Scarnose. Today I thought I would go the other direction and see some of the farmland and hills.”

  “Oh, aye, ’tis a fine day for it. It wid be bonnie fae the Bin the day. But mind yer step as ye gang—tis a crazy man wha bides jist this side o’ the Bin in a wee hoosie wi’ a curse on’t. Ye dinna want tae gang near him. His lassie deid mony a year syne, an’ he’s niver been o’ a richt mind syne. Cursed wi’ the livin’ deith, they say… waitin’ a’ these years tae exact his due, they say. Beware o’ a man w’ deith tae avenge… or on yer ain heid he’ll seek revenge.”

&nbs
p; I did a momentary double take at the odd rhyme. I almost didn’t realize it was a rhyme at first. I was still struggling to understand the thick Scottish dialect and didn’t always grasp what was said to me the first time. But as the words sank in, I realized that the avenge and revenge had been intentional.

  “Well, I will try to be very careful,” I said. “How will I know this man?”

  “Nae ither body bides on the Bin, Miss Buchan, ’tis nae ither hoose for miles. But dinna gang near him. Naethin’ but ill comes tae them wha speiks till him.”

  “Well, thank you for the warning,” I said, and we parted.

  I left her and crossed the main A road, and then headed inland along the private road leading past the Home Farm of the castle and the duke of Buchan’s estate. I recognized the woods of the castle grounds to my left from the drive the day before. After about a mile, I left the road on a public footpath that veered off through cultivated fields, guided by a moss-covered wooden signpost with an arrow pointing the way toward the Bin of Crannoch. In the distance a combine was harvesting either barley or wheat. Cows grazed in the field next to me. A mile ahead, the slopes of the Bin were dotted with white sheep. Occasionally a rabbit scampered out of the underbrush, ran along the path a ways, sometimes stopped a moment to stare at me, then disappeared. The air was still and fragrant with an entirely different range of smells than I encountered on my walks along the sea—green grass and mown fields and an occasional whiff of manure, which, strange as it is to say, along with the other smells of farming life, was appealing in its own way.

  After another three-quarters of a mile the path began to steepen. I left the fields, climbed a stile over a fence, and entered a wooded area. I loved the Scottish coastal woods—fir and pine and birch trees, thinly spaced, nearly always with a thick blanket of moss underneath, a perfect fairy-tale setting for nice Narnian creatures like fauns and friendly trees. They were so different from the thick, dark, desolate, spooky forests of the Canadian Rockies, where you would be more likely to encounter bears or nightmarish Middle Earth beings with horrible names.

  After I’d walked ten or fifteen minutes through this delightful wood, the trees gradually thinned and I found myself in bright sunshine with the loveliest grassy expanse of fields spread out around me. I would almost call it a meadow, for it seemed like one, surrounded as it was by woods and coming upon it suddenly as I had. But it was too large for a meadow, and sheep were grazing everywhere. It was a field, not a meadow, a field full of sheep. I knew I had been climbing, but as I looked around I realized these were the same sheep I had seen before from lower down. There was the peak of the Bin ahead of me. I had already worked my way halfway to the top!

  The next stile I encountered had been built over a low stone wall, a dry stane dyke as it is called. I climbed over it and set out across the green sheep pasture. Slowly as I went the path I had been following blended into the grass and became less and less visible. I didn’t notice at first because I was enjoying the walk so much. The sheep didn’t seem to mind my being among them and kept grazing as I strolled past. I continued on in the direction of the great hill in front of me. By now I was breathing a little more heavily and was definitely climbing a serious slope. I came to another dry stone dyke, but this time there was no stile over it. Now I saw for the first time that I had lost the path.

  I stopped and glanced about. Where could I have gone wrong?

  Below me was the wood I had come out of. Beyond and over it I had a panoramic view of the sea in the distance and the village of Port Scarnose. I wasn’t exactly lost. But my path had disappeared.

  I made my way along the dry stone dyke all the way to the right until it intersected with another just like it, but there was no hint of how to get over it. I found myself blocked by two right angles of stone wall four or five feet high.

  I could climb over it. But I was afraid of dislodging the loose stones and sending them toppling down. I didn’t know exactly how to climb over a dry stone dyke.

  I turned and made my way along this new wall more or less in the direction I’d come from. As I was looking around I saw in the distance, across two more stone dykes, what looked to be a cottage. You saw stone cottages everywhere throughout Scotland in the most solitary places—I had seen dozens. Some were so dilapidated there was nothing left but two end walls, others might have all four walls and a caved-in roof. Once I had seen stones piled in a heap with nothing left standing but a fireplace and a chimney. When the old stone farms and crofts that had been scattered across every hill and valley were abandoned, their former inhabitants just left them to the wind and the rain and the snow. The roofs of timber and thatch and turf were always the first to go and deteriorated rapidly. But the stone walls might remain standing for a hundred years as sad, silent monuments to a time when the Highlands of Scotland were peopled with thousands of families trying to coax a living out of the harsh northern environment. Now it was families of sheep that inhabited the Highlands.

  I walked all the way to the far end of the stone dyke and still saw no way over it. I turned and looked all around yet again. I still could not imagine where the path had gone. I was too far on my way up the Bin to turn around. Slowly I continued down the hill through the sheep pasture, glancing to my right and left. But ten minutes later, after backtracking nearly through the entire pasture, I still had not found so much as a hint of a trail.

  Suddenly a figure appeared about fifty yards in front of me, walking out of the same wood I had come through, then climbing up the stile over the stone wall. I stood a moment and stared, not sure if I was dreaming. He was a picture out of a book! He wore blue dungarees, a bright red plaid wool shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms, and sported a ragged wool cap on his head. A full bushy beard of white was all I could see of his face. His right hand grasped a tall staff with a crook end, and with his left he held the four legs of a sheep that was draped around his neck and over his shoulders, bleating frantically.

  The moment he was over the stile, he knelt down and let the sheep to the ground, swatting its rump as it ran off toward the others, then stood and continued toward me.

  “Best o’ the mornin’ to ye, lassie,” he said as he approached. “Fine day for a ramble.”

  “Yes, it’s beautiful,” I said, smiling. “But I’m afraid I’ve lost my way.”

  “Whaur is it ye be wantin’ tae get till?” he asked.

  “I was following the footpath up to Crannoch Bin,” I replied. “At least I thought I was. Then I got to the end of this field and couldn’t find a way over the stone wall. That’s when I realized I must have gone wrong.”

  “Ye didna ging so far wrang as ye may think, lass. Gien ye’ll jist follow me a wee while, ye’ll be on yer way soon enouch.”

  I turned again and he led me through the meadowy field, now for my third time. With his staff, beard, and old hat and boots, I felt as if I’d time-warped to the Swiss Alps and just met a cheerful version of Heidi’s grandfather!

  “Am I still on the footpath up to the Bin?” I asked.

  “’Tis mony a way o’ gettin’ tae the top,” replied my strange guide. “Maist fowk nowadays come at it fae the ither side, through the woods tae the south. But ye’re still on the auld footpath.”

  “I see no path at all.”

  “’Tis nearly gone fae disuse.”

  We reached the stone wall at the other end, not far from where I had been before.

  “Noo, lass,” he said, “here in the wa’ ye’ll see these protrudin’ stanes for steppin’ ontil. Dinna fret—they’re buirdly enouch. I mortared them in mysel’.”

  He took three steps up over the stone wall as if he were climbing a ladder, then reached back for my hand and helped me up and over after him.

  “I hadn’t even noticed those stepping-stones,” I said. “I was worried about knocking the rocks loose.”

  “’There wis a wood stile here for mony a year. When it finally gave way, I thoucht stanes in the wa’ wud be better, an’
as nane but me made much use o’ it, I re-did a wee bit o’ it wi’ the flat stanes as wee stairs like.”

  “You must walk here often if you took the trouble to make a new stile like that.”

  “I dinna walk here, lass,” he said, laughing. “I live here.”

  “Where?” I said, puzzled.

  “In yonder cottage,” replied the man, pointing toward the stone house I had seen. “’Tis my croft, all o’ this, an’ my sheep. ‘Tis my lan’ ye’re walkin’ on, so it behooves me tae keep my dykes in gude repair.”

  “Oh, I saw your house, but I didn’t realize anyone lived there. You don’t mind if I keep walking up the hill, do you?”

  “Mind?” he repeated. “Why wud I mind, lass?” he said, now laughing again. “Ye’re welcome tae roam aboot whaur ye like. ’Tis a public footpath an’ ye got the richt o’ the law wi’ ye tae cross onybody’s land whereiver a footpath gangs. But even gien there wasna, gien ye’ll jist tell me yer name, then ye’ll be welcome as a frien’.”

  “It’s Marie,” I said. “Marie Buchan.”

  “Weel, then, Marie Buchan—gie me a grip o’ yer han’,” he said, holding out his right hand. “I’m Ranald Bain.”

  I shook his hand and he smiled warmly.

  “Noo,” he said, “ye winna find much o’ a path the rest o’ yer way. But diagonal across this meadow jist there,” he added, pointing up the hill to my left, “ye’ll find yer way over anither wooden stile, an’ fae there hold till the edge o’ the wood till ye come oot intil a clearing. Bear left an’ ye’ll join the path fae the south I telt ye aboot. Then the way till the top’ll be clear enouch.”