Veil of Time

by Claire R. McDougall

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  In loving memory

  of my father, Kenneth James McDougall

  Within our dreams

  We cross the trammels

  Of our finite days,

  We meet, we love, we live;

  If death meant such a

  Dream, then

  Life without you, worse

  Than death, would trade

  Herself for deathless sleep

  Far more than life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No matter that a writer is by nature a loner, a published book is a collaboration, and I am deeply grateful for the help and support I have received during the writing and publishing of this book. First of all, I must ask my husband and family’s forgiveness for my broodiness while I was writing and my moodiness when I was not. A very big thank-you goes to my agent, Esmond Harmsworth, and my editor, Abby Zidle, both of whom screwed their courage to the sticking place in getting behind this book. The Aspen Writer’s Foundation deserves sincere credit for backing this local writer and helping to put the word out. For those friends who gave of their time and creative energy I am grateful: Gail Holstein, Paul Jones, Naomi McDougall Jones, Kent Reed, Ross Douglas, George Lilly, Barbara Bartocci, Deborah Lieberman.

  Tapadh liebh, Allan Turner, who oversaw from Scotland my attempts at Gaelic, and gratias maximas tibi ago to Esmond Harmsworth, who brought his classical education to bear on my paltry Latin. Thank you to all who live at Dunadd, both past and present. But mostly I am indebted to the country of Scotland, for all of its history and its continuing quest to be free.

  1

  Long before my affliction was given a name, I was having dreams. Not passing dreams, but dreams in deep sleep that weave themselves into the fabric of your mind and won’t let go. Even in bed beside Oliver Griggs, it wasn’t Griggs I was dreaming about, but Robert Burns or Robert the Bruce or William Wallace. I was there, not stretched out like a corpse beside my husband, but in the bracken or in the shelter of a stone house with thatch and a fire. I watched Burns with his head on his desk after a night of brawling coming round slowly to lift his pen; it was me in the trees, running from the English with my hand in the hand of the Wallace.

  So, I know how to get away. Don’t think I don’t. I know, but I can’t control it. An affliction buried in my genes is the gate, and I have no way of choosing when I get to go through. Not very often, is the answer, not even as often as the seizures, because they don’t always end in sleep.

  I got away eventually from Professor Griggs. The dreams were too much for him.

  “You always seem a bit removed,” he said once, peering at me over his glasses like the teacher he is. “I’m not even sure if we inhabit the same world.”

  Oliver married me before he really knew what it meant to have to depend on phenobarbital to keep your day on a smooth path.

  I tried to live in his world, tried the “normality” game as far as it would go. On the day of our wedding, I took twice the number of seizure pills, just to make sure I could glide through the “I do’s,” and so could Oliver. I suppose he was saving the “I don’ts” for later.

  I married Griggs when he was someone else, before he hung up his jeans for a suit and his ideas for a curriculum. The years sort of flattened out between us, the endless days of child minding, the meetings and schedules at the university, the children who came and went, each in his or her different way.

  Because she was there once, my daughter, my Ellie. She was there, and now I have no way of getting to her, whether through the fog or dreams; she is gone. My son, Graeme, took himself off to boarding school after Ellie died. I wasn’t there anymore, and there was no point in his staying. So I left Glasgow, too, sold the house where we’d all lived under the illusion of being something stable and unchanging. But we weren’t. The scene exploded or imploded, at least the center did not hold. After Ellie died, Oliver couldn’t speak to me for weeks, couldn’t actually look at me, open his mouth, and let out a sound. He blamed me, because that gene didn’t stop with me. Ellie died during a seizure, and though everyone knows better, they can’t help feeling I’m at fault, as though I had willed that horrid coil of DNA right into her.

  Perhaps Graeme cried with his father, but he never did with me. He pulled up his fifteen-year-old self and said he had to go. We all had to go, so we didn’t argue. His father had already left, perhaps not the house, but he wasn’t there. So, with everyone already gone, Graeme moved to the east coast and I came with my suitcases to Dunadd.

  What is this place called Dunadd? It is shades of green and all covered with bracken; it smells of moss and rain pouring for days on end. It is grey stone walls and cloud and bog and black slugs. It is sea and seagull cry, and the rough call of the pheasant. It is all these things and it is not that far from Glasgow, if you are a crow. If you are a bird, you fly high over a treeless mountain pass, over waterfalls and fingers of sea lochs that take a person in a car three hours to drive. Dunadd is a great rock rising out of a wide valley that runs from the hills that encircle it down to the sea at Crinan. It’s not the place it once was, when Crinan was Scotland’s main port, and wine and spices, jewelry and slaves were brought to Dunadd to be traded.

  Mornings in my little cottage beneath Dunadd are so quiet now; the clouds are low and drizzling. Glasgow, where I lived another life with a husband and children, has no currency here. My children, who look at me from their picture frames when I awake, are not known here. Neither is Oliver Griggs of the University of Glasgow. Not even Margaret Griggs is known here, because I have unearthed the old Maggie Livingstone of childhood and pasted it over the Margaret I had become.

  I wander around Dunadd in a sort of waking dream. There hasn’t been much truck in humans here since the Dark Ages. In those days, when it was easier to travel by sea, there were no roads over the mountains and only foot trails around the lochs. These days there is the A83 from Glasgow all the way to this boggy land populated mostly now by ancient relics: standing stones, burial cairns, middens full of shells and bones.

  When everything fell apart in Glasgow, I packaged up my life and drove here with boxes of books and postgraduate research on the witch burnings I had started once upon a time. Being an afflicted one myself, I suppose I felt some empathy with the witches, but I dropped all that when I married and for a while wasn’t feeling like an outcast anymore.

  But all things pass, and here I am with my cup of tea in the early morning, in the floral chair by the window looking out at the River Add that winds around the base of Dunadd. I bring my knees to my chest and pull my nightie down over my stockinged feet, watching the peaty red water swirl about the deep places. In the garden at the back of the cottage is a single standing stone to which one end of a washing line has been tied.

  Only one other cottage lies alongside the trail up to the top of Dunadd. Except for the older man who lives there and me, the land here is empty of people. At night, there is nothing but the wind and the dark and the memory of the many islands that lie offshore. By first light, the tourists start driving in, to scramble up the path to the summit of this windy seat of the Celts, where the relics of the Pictish, then Celtic, then Viking fort lie in crumbles of tumble-down walls. Not even the archaeologists really know what was up there, because it was all too long ago, and not that long ago since the fort was handed over to the Scottish National Trust by the former feudal lord.

  Archaeological digs c
ome in from time to time and take Dunadd’s treasures to the museum at the top end of the valley in the town of Kilmartin. What’s left for the tourists is a Pictish boar carved in the rock, and a footprint where kings once placed their feet in the first coronation ceremonies of Scotland. The tourists smile at the camera with one boot in the stone imprint. They run their fingers along the outline of this early boar, barely visible now, that would eventually become the emblem of Scotland.

  But in the evenings, when the sun swoons at the edge of the sea, there is only me on the edge of the windy hill. Up there, there is no sense of pace or life as life has evolved. On the edges of this glen, the Scandinavian firs that were once brought in for profit are slowly turning themselves back to ancient oak forests. Nothing but lorries carrying the last of the timber move fast here now.

  You see, there is only one way out of my phenobarbital fog. I’m here at Dunadd for three months, October to January, to look at that thesis on witches again and to await my day of reckoning.

  “For your type of epilepsy, Margaret, a lobectomy might be the best solution.” My doctor calls me Margaret, because he comes from my Glasgow life.

  I know all this. I know enough about my affliction to understand the dangers to my brain of repeated seizures. I know, because it killed my daughter. And where would Graeme be without a mother? He’s in his last refuge, and I owe him this operation. It’s the last thing I have left to give him. If it all comes out right, perhaps I’ll move to a flat in Edinburgh and become a real mother again. If it doesn’t, then these three months at Dunadd will be the end of Maggie, of Margaret, of me.

  I came to this holiday cottage at Dunadd because I used to come here from Glasgow as a child. In those days my seizures were mild and undiagnosed. The nuns at my school used to put me out in the corridor if I had “an episode,” as my mother used to call them. They told her I was just showing off. It took the doctors until I was in my teens to diagnose my epilepsy and then years more for them to bring the seizures under control—more or less.

  The holiday cottage was different then, with a musty smell and small poky rooms. New owners knocked down walls, opened up the kitchen into the living room, and turned the windows into sliding glass doors. This is where I sit now with my crumpet and my cup of tea, hurling headlong towards the Day of Lobectomy. I came because I am scared of going forward, and time moves more slowly here. Sometimes at Dunadd time hardly seems to exist at all.

  2

  The man in the other cottage at Dunadd is Jim Galvin, a typical Highlander, a man of wry smile and few words, a man who had a wife, I understand—I don’t know why he still doesn’t. I’ve seen him at the museum in Kilmartin, a kind of relic himself. He nods to me and then looks away.

  Whenever I’m on my way up Dunadd, when I creak through the stile by his garden, he looks up, one foot and his large hands on his spade, mulching in fertilizer by the smell of it. Behind him, roses and rhododendrons stand up tall in bushes or creep up the whitewash of his house. Outside my cottage door at Dunadd is an old trough with the remnants of summer pansies. Despite the cold, a hopeful purple pansy has pushed its face through the wilted leaves towards the sun.

  I came to Dunadd just before Halloween and have been content to be nodded at and not spoken to, even by the little old lady behind the counter in Kilmartin’s one tiny shop, which sells everything from cornflakes to Wellington boots. But Halloween by yourself feels a bit sad.

  When I first arrived, I carved a turnip with a smile, lit him with a candle, and set him in my window. Still, after a week I would like to talk to someone apart from myself, and I think I should like to talk to Jim Galvin, the man on the hill. But I don’t know how to get around the digging and gardening and the nods that are supposed to tell you what you need to know. I don’t have skills for getting around people; if I had, I would have got around my husband.

  I’m not looking for any man, let it be said, least of all some older Highland man who looks at me like I’m to be distrusted for coming from the city. I’m sure he already knows where I’m from. Information here travels on the small waves, like radio talk, and simply gets absorbed. There will have been tuts and sideways glances over me in the Kilmartin shop and even, I imagine, in the bigger town eight miles away. The annals of these people are always being added to. In the year 2014 of the Common Era, a woman from the city of Glasgow took up residence at Dunadd. She arrived with books and papers and set a lit turnip in her window. To be continued . . .

  I don’t even know how to think about a man anymore. Maybe I never did. Maybe that’s why Oliver Griggs was able to take me unawares. But I am only thirty-eight, not that bad looking, I think. I inherited a helpful gene that has so far kept grey from my hair. The color of old rust, Oliver used to say in the days when such things didn’t jar. Lately I’ve had to wear glasses for reading, but, if I wanted, I could still see well enough to add a little liner and shade to my eyes. My mother always said my eyes were my best asset, since my nose was a little broad to be pretty. Green eyes she said came from my great-aunt Ginny. She didn’t say where the epilepsy came from.

  I have stacked my books against the wall of my bedroom. Lonely little bedroom, for all that I want to be by myself. I am ill at ease among my own sheets these days. I suppose I could use a man. If he could just come and go; if I didn’t have to look at him over the breakfast table and wonder what he was thinking. But it wouldn’t be Jim Galvin on the hill. I hope he hasn’t woken in the night and thought of me, the only female for miles.

  Still, just for the sake of conversation I could make him a Halloween cake; take it over as a sort of neighborly offering, so it wouldn’t seem silly to be stuck in such a remote spot with one other human and only a nod going between the two of us. I used to make Halloween cakes for my children, who would lick their little fingers sticky with black icing and orange trim.

  Jim Galvin doesn’t answer when I knock with one hand while balancing the cake on a plate in my other. The wind is brewing circles around me, making me think I should have tied my hair back into something more respectful for a neighborly visit. Along the way back home, when it starts to rain, a scrawny black kitten runs across the path in front of me. I stop and try to call it back, but since I can’t put the cake down on the road, I have to leave the cat in the downpour.

  In the bathroom mirror, I gather my damp hair on top of my head so that I look like a feather duster, but at least it gets it out of the way, and it doesn’t look as if I’m going to be seeing anyone today. Except for the cat, which I see now sitting at my window, meowing so faintly against the rain that all I notice is her mouth opening. She comes running when I call for her at the door, and laps hungrily at the saucer of milk I set on the floor by the door. I don’t know if it’s a she, but if she belongs to no one I might keep her and name her Winnie, because it rhymes with skinny and with Great-Aunt Ginny.

  She follows me into the kitchen, where I have set the uneaten cake. But cakes have a way of talking, and this one tells me it ought not to be left to go stale. I let the knife sink down into its swirls of chocolate and vanilla sponge and slither a thin slice onto a plate. I am so intent with my fork, separating the brown from the yellow cake, and I am in any case so unused to anything in my window that I jump when Jim Galvin appears. In a witch’s hat.

  I try to smile when I open the door to him.

  “Sorry,” he says when I slide the window back. He chuckles. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  As he steps in, Winnie runs out and then back in again. As Jim tugs his Wellies off, she uses his free leg as a rubbing board.

  I point to the feather duster on my head. “I didn’t mean to frighten you either.”

  I think that’s a smile on his face. He says, “Right enough.”

  I point to the now incomplete cake, feeling guilty. Guilt comes naturally to me. “Would you like a slice?”

  “With a cup of tea,” he says, “that would be lovely.”

  I flitter over to my half kitchen and pres
s the switch down on the electric kettle so that it lights up purple and the element begins to roar as though it had grander designs for itself.

  He says, “I see you’re taking in the farm animals.”

  “She’s not yours, is she?” I ask.

  He goes to set Winnie outside. “Not on your life.”

  “Oh, just leave her,” I say. “It’s awfully windy.”

  Jim smiles his wry smile, as though I must have a screw loose to think a cat can’t survive when it needs to. I do have a screw loose, more than one, I imagine. It would be funny if that had been the diagnosis after all the years of tests: a screw loose. Oliver would no doubt concur.

  Jim has obviously been brought up in an era when men had to be asked to sit in the presence of a female. I let him stand there uncomfortably for a moment, witch’s hat in hand, until the kettle clicks off.

  He looks down awkwardly at his woolly socks. “Where are you from?”

  I pour the steaming water into a mug over a tea bag. “Milk?”

  “Please.”

  “From Glasgow.”

  He takes the tea, still waiting to be asked to sit. “You’re not far traveled, then.”

  I gesture towards the oversized blue couch. He may not sit in the floral seat by the window. That is mine. Winnie follows him and stretches along the length of his thigh as though perhaps he really did like cats.

  “Far enough,” I say, taking my own seat. “Have you lived in these parts all your life?”

  “Apart from a stint in the merchant navy, aye,” he says. “It does me fine.”

  I watch him take a sip of tea, trancelike in the way I get, studying people when I ought to be being polite. It’s part of living in a fog; you have to look hard to see where you’re going.

  He says, “I saw you from the bathroom window. With the black cake.”