“Would you like to try it?” I asked.
“What—are you kidding? I came to listen to you.”
“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t try it, too. I am a harp teacher, after all. I can teach anyone to play the harp.”
“I could never do it.”
“You can’t make a harp sound bad. Just try it.”
He sat down and probed the strings with his fingers. It reminded me of Gwendolyn’s first attempt.
“Here,” I said, “let me show you how to play a chord.”
Just as I had with Gwendolyn, I placed the fingers of his two hands on the strings. He plucked them, a little awkwardly, but the sound of the chord came through.
“Try some more,” I said. “Experiment with it. See what your fingers do.”
It was obvious that Gwendolyn had not inherited her talent from him. Without my actually placing his fingers on the strings, he could do nothing but make random sounds.
“I told you I couldn’t do it!” He laughed. “This sounds dreadful. It is possible to make a harp sound bad—I just proved it.”
I laughed. “All right, you win! But after a few lessons, I would have you playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ like nobody’s business.”
“I would rather listen to you,” he said, standing and stepping away.
I sat down and quickly strummed several glissandi. He laughed with delight, then backed up and sat down in the overstuffed chair by the window. I began to play and went through several of my favorite Scottish ballads. Every time I glanced over at him he was staring at me as if in a trance.
“You were so right in what you said to me before,” he said as I brought my hands to rest. “The harp is a very visual instrument. It is as mesmerizing to watch your fingers as to listen to the music itself. It is a total experience. I see why you love the harp.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Why do you like the harp so much? Are you that way with all music?”
“I’ve never been musical. I’m sure you can tell that from my attempts.”
“I’m not through trying to teach you.”
“It’s no use.”
“Then what is it that draws you?”
“I don’t know that I can put it into words,” Alasdair replied. “From the moment I first heard you, that day in the churchyard, something sparked to life inside me. It wakened a little more when you came to play at the castle. I feel, I don’t know, different than I have in years. The music does something to me. I feel like I have been asleep, in a dream, for so long, and now I am suddenly coming awake. Whatever that place inside me is, or wherever it is, I feel like it is waking up a little more every time I hear the music.”
“That’s beautiful,” I said. “I’ve never heard anyone say something like that about my music.”
“It’s true.”
I could not help thinking that what he had described was exactly what I was feeling, too, though for spiritual reasons. I was waking up spiritually. What my music was waking in him though, I wasn’t sure.
“Then let me continue with the awakening!” I said. “Or on second thought, maybe I should put on the tea and get lunch started.”
“No, please,” said Alasdair. “There is plenty of time. Play a little more first.”
Again I set my hands to the strings. I played for perhaps fifteen minutes. Neither of us spoke as I moved from one song to the next.
All of a sudden, in the middle of “Yesterday,” the doorbell rang. I stopped and looked toward it.
“Who could that be?” I said, rising. Inwardly, even as I said it, my stomach began wandering up toward my throat. There were only two people it could possibly be—Iain or Mrs. Gauld—and I didn’t want either of them to be paying me a visit with the duke here. I wondered if I could keep the door from opening all the way. But who was I trying to fool—there was his BMW sitting on the street in front of the house.
I drew in a breath of air as I got up and walked slowly toward the door. To my surprise, there stood Gwendolyn’s aunt.
“Mrs. Urquhart!” I exclaimed.
Whether she had recognized the car or not, she did not at first seem to know I had a guest.
“Hello, Marie,” she said. “I came by to tell you—”
A movement inside the house caught her eye and she saw that I was not alone. Apparently she still did not recognize who was with me. She hesitated briefly, then went on.
“I wanted to tell you that Gwendolyn has taken sick today. I think it would be best if you did not bring your harp to her today. The doctor says she needs to rest and not—”
At the sound of her voice the duke had turned. Now Mrs. Urquhart saw his face in the room behind me. A gasp escaped her lips and her face went pale.
The two stared at each other for a moment.
“Hello, Olivia,” said the duke, speaking first.
“Alasdair,” she said, then turned back to me. “I will let you know when Gwendolyn is better,” she said, then turned and began walking away from the house.
“Would you mind if I came to visit her?” I said after her. “Without my harp, I mean.”
She paused and glanced back with the strangest look on her face. She began to reply, but then turned again without a word and continued to the street and up the pavement.
I turned back into the house and closed the door. Alasdair was quiet, but I asked no questions. I went back to my harp and played for another five or ten minutes. But my music mood was gone. There was obvious tension in the air. Was there some sort of feud between this brother and sister who hadn’t seen each other in ages? The atmosphere had been so thick you could have cut it with a sgian dubh.
When I finally got up and went to the kitchen to fix tea and prepare lunch a few minutes later, Alasdair was himself again.
Chapter Thirty-four
Angel in the Making
Fair and lovely as thou art, thou has stown my very heart;
I can die, but cannot part, my bonnie dearie.
Ca’ the yowes to the knows, ca’ them whaur the heather grows.
Ca’ them whaur the burnie rows, my bonnie dearie.
—“Ca’ the Yowes”
The duke and I had an enjoyable lunch together. By now we were able to visit and talk freely. The stiffness and awkwardness of our first few meetings was completely gone. I played for him again. Alasdair left about two-thirty.
I would have to talk to Alasdair eventually about what was going on with him and Gwendolyn and Mrs. Urquhart. I had to know. There must be more to the story than the bits and pieces I had heard.
Now that my initial prejudices against the duke, that is, Mr. Reidhaven… that is, Alasdair, were fading, I could not help wondering if all the blame really lay with him as Mrs. Gauld had implied. Relationships are rarely one-dimensional. Now that I knew Alasdair Reidhaven, two things were plain to me—one, he was probably the kind of man people could easily misunderstand, and two, beneath an exterior that might be a little difficult to penetrate beat the heart of a sensitive human being.
After Alasdair’s departure, I went out for a walk. On my way back I stopped by the Urquharts’.
Mrs. Urquhart was noticeably cool. I knew it was because of Alasdair. Slowly but surely, things Mrs. Gauld had told me were being confirmed.
“Hello, Mrs. Urquhart,” I said. “How is Gwendolyn?”
“About the same,” she replied without smiling.
“May I see her?”
“I will see if she is awake.”
She left me standing on the porch. She returned a minute later and nodded for me to come in. She led me to Gwendolyn’s bedroom and left me there. Gwendolyn lay in bed looking very pale.
“Hi, Gwendolyn,” I said, walking toward the bed. Her face, encircled by her bright red hair, was as pale as the pillow behind it. But her eyes brightened when she saw me.
“Marie!” she said. “I can’t play today. I’m sick.”
“That’s what I hear,” I said, sitting down beside her and taking
her hand. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I got sick.”
“Are you very miserable?”
“I sleep when I get sick. Mummy sometimes reads me stories.”
“Do you get sick often?”
“Sometimes. Mummy says it is the way my body is. She says I have to go to bed and wait till it is gone. But I want to play on your harp. I hear songs that I want to make on it.”
“Where do you hear them, Gwendolyn?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere inside me. I don’t know where the songs come from.”
“I am sure you will be out of bed and making music again very soon.”
She looked away and stared up at the ceiling for several long seconds. She seemed to be thinking. I said nothing. I hoped she might say something more about where the music inside her came from, and how she heard it. I was fascinated. Her next words, however, were not what I expected.
“Do angels play harps, Marie?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Gwendolyn,” I answered. “They might. Some people think so.”
“Sometimes I think about dying and being an angel. Especially when I get sick. That’s when I think about dying, when I am in bed. Mummy doesn’t say anything, but I know she thinks I am going to die. I’ve heard her talking to other people.”
The simple words stung my heart. The poor thing, to have to carry such a burden alone in the midst of a lonely life because other children were afraid of her.
“I am sorry, Gwendolyn,” I said. “You are not afraid, are you?”
“I think I used to be afraid. But I am not afraid now. Because when I die I will become an angel. That’s what happens when people die—they turn into angels. I used to think I might die and they wouldn’t let me be an angel and that I would have to go to the other place, where there aren’t any angels.” Then her face brightened. “But now I can be an angel because I can play the harp.”
I was so moved by her words. I had used my harp to help ease suffering before—in care homes and hospitals. I had seen its music bring peace. I had seen Alzheimer’s patients start to sing old folk songs. But never had I seen the music of my harp remove the fear of death.
My eyes filled with tears and I glanced away. I wiped at them hurriedly and looked back with a smile. Gwendolyn was looking straight into my eyes.
“Don’t be sad, Marie,” she said. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am,” I said, taking in a deep breath. “Knowing you makes me happy.”
“You taught me to be an angel, Marie. You taught me to play the harp. I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
“Would you like to hear some of the music you made?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, please! Did you bring your machine?”
“I have it right here.”
I set the recorder on the bed. The tape was inside. I rewound it to the beginning and turned it on. The sound of my harp, even out of a little plastic box, had a magical, soothing effect on her. Whether her brain made the connection that this was her own music, I have no idea. But wherever it had come from, it wove a spell on us both. Slowly she closed her eyes, a smile on her lips, and we listened in peaceful silence. After about ten minutes, her breathing became deeper. Within moments I saw that she was drifting to sleep to the sounds of her own music, the smile of contentment still on her face.
I sat awhile longer, listening and gazing into her dear white innocent face. When I knew she was sound asleep, I turned off the tape and left the house. I walked back to my cottage and dropped off the recorder, then went walking through the village thinking of many things.
Mostly of Gwendolyn.
Chapter Thirty-five
The Old Story
Tell me the old, old story,
tell me the old, old story,
tell me the old, old story,
of Jesus and his love.
—Catherine Hankey, “Tell Me the Old, Old Story”
The next morning I set out for a walk along the headlands.
I looked inland, however, and saw Crannoch Bin standing guard silently over the coastline. My thoughts turned again to Ranald Bain. With a pang I realized that I ought to be sharing with him the progress and insights of my spiritual journey.
Alasdair talked about my harp music waking something inside him. New awakenings were taking place in me, too. If Ranald Bain was the wise man Iain said he was, perhaps he could add to the new perspectives coming to life within me.
Five minutes later I was walking away from the coast in the direction of the Bin.
I found the old shepherd outside with his dogs and sheep.
“Lassie!” he called with a wave and smile. “Ye’re back, an’ welcome tae ye!”
“How goes the harp playing?” I asked as I walked toward him.
“Middlin’,” he replied. “The brain is willin’, but the fingers is stiff an’ slow.”
“I thought today might be a good day for your second lesson.”
“Aye! Jist gie me a minute tae see tae these lads an’ lassies an’ clean up a mite. Gae ben the hoose gien ye like—put the water on for tea… ye ken whaur I keep the pot?”
I nodded. “I’ll find it.”
I was seated at the harp, retuning it as best I could by ear when Ranald came in five minutes later.
“It has kept its pitch remarkably well,” I said. “Sit down and show me what you can do.”
I stood. Ranald took off his hat and sat down, pulled the harp toward him and placed it on his left shoulder. I smiled as slowly he began to play.
“That’s very good!” I said. “I would know that tune anywhere.”
“All right, then, lassie, fit hae ye tae show me?”
“The first thing you might try is to lean the harp on your other shoulder.”
We both laughed.
I brought another chair over from his kitchen table and sat down beside him. After a few pointers, and help with his fingers, within thirty minutes he had already improved his tone. We read through a few tunes from the same book we had used before. After that I was confident he would be able to continue improving steadily on his own.
“It would be fun if I had my harp here, too,” I said. “Two harps together make a lovely sound. But is there a road up here? How do you go down to the village? Do you have a car?”
“Oh, aye—’tis in the garage oot back. The road winds doon ahint the hoose an’ comes oot on one o’ the Home Farm’s roads. I’ll take ye doon gien ye like, sae ye’ll ken the way gien ye want tae drive up noo an’ then.”
“Thank you for the offer. Perhaps I shall. But the walk is part of the magic of coming up here—the woods, the meadow, coming upon the sheep, then encountering a wild old mysterious shepherd appearing out of nowhere.”
Ranald laughed at my description.
After tea we began to talk of more serious things. I shared with Ranald about my trip, and both my spiritual and historical revelations, if that’s what they would be called.
Even as I was telling about it, as if he sensed what was coming about the heather, he rose and added several chunks of dried peat to the wood burning in his hearth. Within ten minutes it began to glow red and orange. He added more, until the fire was fully aglow with peat, and the faint aroma from a few errant puffs of smoke had invaded Ranald’s cottage with its unique fragrance, as subtle as the heather’s color, so beloved in the Highlands as a sure sign that the warmth of a peat fire was not far away.
As I concluded my story, he grew quiet and reflective. “Ye’ve aye touched some ancient threads, lassie,” he said. “The heather an’ the peat’s the slowest growin’ o’ nearly all things in makin’ the heat they give. Peat’s ane o’ the ancient wonders o’ life. ’Tis one o’ the mysteries the Creator put in the good earth he gave us.”
He paused briefly, a faraway look crossing his face. “Wud ye like me tae tell ye what the colors o’ the heather put me intil the mind o’?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes, I would love to hear it,” I ans
wered.
“’Tis a reminder o’ the auld times,” said Ranald. “The auld men an’ women fa spoke the Gaelic tongue—’twas peat that kept them alive… the heather abune, the peat belaw… an’ the hue o’ its blossom tells the story but only few een can see. But ye’ve learned tae see it, haen’t ye, lass?”
“I think I am beginning to.” I smiled.
“’Tis jist what ye were tellin’ me—the shades o’ Caledonia’s royalty… no a royalty weel kent by earthly rule, but a royalty o’ the hert that all Scots treasure in their ain way.”
We sat staring into the fireplace, where heat now emanated in earnest from the hot-glowing sides and corners of the ancient black bricks whose legendary warmth was not merely physical, but emotional and cultural as well, symbolizing a heritage now kept alive only by those few who did not allow the flow of modernity to rob from their sight the capacity to look back… and remember.
“The auld story’s what makes a Scot a Scot,” said Ranald. “’Tis what ye discovered walkin’ its hills and moors. ’Tis nae place it’s sae alive as Glencoe, whaur the spirit of the clan o’ Donald cries oot fae the mountains: Dinna forgit… dinna forgit!”
We stared into the fire a long time, sipping at our tea. “Iain said you might like to tell me a story about you and him,” I said at length, “—from when he was a young scamp. He credits you with turning his life around.”
The smile on Ranald’s face gradually changed to a thoughtful and nostalgic one. The question obviously sent his mind back many years.
“’Twas a hot summer in Scotland,” he began. “The local nickums were oot an’ aboot ilka nicht wi’ their mischief. ’Twas jist afore the school was tae start up again an’ the hairst was weel under way, an’ though maist o’ the apples on the trees roun’ aboot werena ripe yet, they were a sair temptation. The nickums, ye ken, hae a tradition o’ strippin the apples aff the trees o’ someone or anither’s. Seems a simple enouch thing noo, but ’twas a time when puir fowk depended on their apples for food. Folks love their apples, ye ken.
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