The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  © 2016 by Michael Phillips

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-2938-0

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by LOOK Design Studio

  Cover photography by Aimee Christensen

  Author is represented by Alive Communications, Inc.

  This is a series about generational legacies, those that extend in both directions. As I have written these stories, my thoughts have been filled with influences that have come down to me from my own parents and grandparents and ancestors even further back, including their Quaker heritage. And I am constantly reminded of those who have followed, namely Judy’s and my sons and grandchildren, and whatever my life has been and will be capable of passing on to them.

  More than two decades ago I dedicated books of a series to our three sons. They were young, and my father’s heart was filled with visions of the years ahead we would share together. Now they are grown men. Whatever legacy a father is able to pass on to his sons looks much different to me at today’s more mature vantage point from which to assess life’s unfolding and progressive journey—both mine and theirs.

  Therefore, to our three sons and the men of spiritual stature they have each become, I gratefully and lovingly dedicate the volumes of this series.

  to

  Patrick Jeremy Phillips

  Contents

  Cover 1

  Title Page 3

  Copyright Page 4

  Dedication 5

  Tulloch Clan Family Tree 9

  Map of Whales Reef, Shetland Islands 10

  Part 1—June 1924 11

  1. A Boy and a Bird 13

  2. A Celt in the Making 16

  3. Shared Passing of Life 18

  4. First Entry 20

  5. Life Stories 22

  Part 2—Late Summer, 2005 27

  6. Bright Future 29

  7. Shetland Shepherd 36

  8. Father and Son 43

  9. Hats, Boots, and Whiskey 49

  10. The North Cliffs 52

  11. Big Oil 58

  12. Reminders 62

  13. Relinquished Dreams 67

  14. The Muckle Room 72

  15. A Tough Fisher Breed 76

  16. Baker and Chief 81

  17. Uncle and Chief 84

  18. Life in the Fast Lane 87

  19. Passing of a Legacy 90

  Part 3—November 2005 99

  20. Season of Change 101

  21. What’s in a Name? 106

  22. The Mill 110

  23. Reminiscences 114

  24. A Chief’s Concern 120

  25. Reentry 123

  26. Bewildering Accounts 130

  27. The Journal 133

  28. Unsettling Clouds on the Horizon 139

  29. “Loni” 144

  30. Craigsmont Lounge 151

  Part 4—Winter, 2005–2006 155

  31. Village Talk 157

  32. Whales Fin Inn 161

  33. Audney and Her Chief 165

  34. Rumors 169

  35. Do You Believe in Christmas? 172

  36. Bleak Mid-Winter 176

  37. Christmas in the Big Apple 178

  38. Rivals and Lovers 184

  39. Over Dinner 188

  40. The Heir Hunter 193

  41. A More Guarded Interview 201

  42. Chief and Aunt 204

  43. Shepherd, Housekeeper, and Butler 210

  44. Books, Antiques, and Scones 215

  45. Stunning Revelation 222

  46. Sudden Worries 230

  47. A Long Spring 233

  Part 5—Summer, 2006 237

  48. Whales Reef Solstice Fair 239

  49. Visitors and Memories 245

  50. Sheep and Fishermen 254

  51. Of Lairds and Gossips 259

  52. Threats and Promises 265

  53. A Sunday Drive 268

  54. A Daring Attempt 271

  55. The Hardy Fire 278

  56. A Difference 283

  57. Plan C 287

  58. News 289

  59. The Letter 291

  60. It’s Your Destiny 294

  61. Decision 299

  Part 6—July 2006 303

  62. Reflections on a Cherished Heritage 305

  63. Brusque Interruption 309

  64. The Wait Is Over 311

  65. First Class and Pronto 314

  66. Flurry of New Uncertainty 316

  67. Unsatisfying Departure 321

  68. Healing Tears 324

  69. The Letter Box 328

  70. Shetland at Last 334

  71. The Complex Estate of Macgregor Tulloch 338

  72. On the Trail 345

  73. Into the Country 347

  74. The Ferry 350

  75. Stranger on Whales Reef 354

  76. The Cottage 358

  77. First Guest 361

  78. A Mysterious Old Man With a Story to Tell 367

  Part 7—October 1953 371

  79. The Coffin 373

  80. The Procession 377

  81. The Inheritance 379

  82. The Graveside 383

  83. The Village 387

  84. The Reunion 393

  85. The Study 399

  86. The Bard 406

  87. The Key 410

  88. The Legacy 413

  Part 8—July 2006 415

  89. Are Not Two Sparrows Sold For a Farthing? 417

  90. The Key and an Old Journal 421

  91. Sleepless in Scotland 424

  92. Another Visitor 427

  About the Author 430

  Back Ads 431

  Back Cover 434

  1

  A Boy and a Bird

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  On a late afternoon of a surprisingly warm day, a small lad sat on a large stone with the blue of sky and water spreading out before him. The air was full of motion, but for this one of Shetland’s minor islands the wind was relatively light. The chair-rock of his perch jutted out of the ground near a high bluff overlooking the sea.

  The boy lifted his face to the fragrant breeze as he watched the birds soaring above. He loved the birds, and he loved the sea. But today that love was tinged with sadness.

  He looked beside him. On a tuft of sea grass lay a tiny bird with a broken wing.

  The boy was only seven, but the music of the angels stirred within him. He valued life in all its forms. From almost the moment he was born he possessed an uncanny connection to the animal kingdom. It was not merely that he loved animals. This boy understood them far beyond the usual capacity of humans to comprehend their winged and four-footed brethren of creation.

  By the time he was three, his father and mother avowed that he knew what every dog around him was thinking. W
ith searching eyes he looked at the infinitely fascinating nonhuman faces of the creatures around him. By age four he walked among the sheep and cows and ponies his father tended for the laird as if he were one of them. He talked to them too. His strange communications, however, came in whispers, gestures, and otherworldly noises whose subtleties were known only to the animals. A word or sign from the boy brought instant obedience from any of the laird’s half-dozen sheepdogs, as well as their own Shep, the boy’s constant companion now resting at his feet.

  A brief gust blew up from the cliff face in front of him, ruffling the tiny bird’s feathers and sending the boy’s carroty thatch into a momentary flurry. He steadied himself on the stone and breathed deeply.

  Those living beings most at home here—who had been here the longest and doubtless the first to settle in this place—were those who had made peace with this land of wind. The continuous currents were sometimes their ally, often a stimulus, occasionally a friend . . . but never an enemy. Wind was necessary to their survival, whether generated by the earth spinning on its axis or by their own powerfully created musculature.

  These wind-lovers were the birds.

  The winged species of the Shetlands, at once exceptional yet commonplace, were majestic and colorful in their diversity. For sheer quantity they seemed numerous as the sands surrounding these isolated islands in the middle of the North Atlantic. If the ancient parable was true that two were once sold for less than a penny, no one would now pay a penny for even a thousand of the gulls, thrushes, swifts, swallows, sparrows, finches, and bramblings that swarmed these moors, inlets, and rocky coastlines.

  But earthly eyes do not always perceive eternal merit. Even the tiniest of these had worth for those who saw them as creatures imagined into being out of God’s fathering heart. The most insignificant of creatures—both birds and boys—had stories to tell.

  Young Sandy Innes, son of the laird’s gamekeeper, had come upon the bird lying helpless and alone beside the rock. A pang seized his heart, for the tiny life was precious to him. That life, however, looked fragile and was ebbing away.

  He knew the bird was dying.

  With a single gesture to Shep behind him, he sat down on the rock. The dog had made no move since. The first impulse of Sandy’s boyish love was to stroke the feathery back. But he knew that doing so would frighten the poor tiny thing. He did not want it to die in fear, but in peace.

  So he sat.

  And waited.

  A tear crept into his eyes as he gazed on the tiny creature beside him.

  When he heard footsteps moments later, the boy turned. A tall figure was walking toward him.

  The man saw the bird on the ground. He sat down on the thick grass with the bird between himself and the boy, the black-and-white form of his gamekeeper’s sheepdog motionless behind them.

  No word was spoken for several minutes. Neither felt compelled to disturb the tranquility of the moor behind them and the sea before them.

  “What are ye aboot, Sandy?” said the man at length.

  “The wee birdie is dyin’,” replied the boy. His high voice was soft, tender, and unsteady.

  “Yes . . . I see.”

  “I wanted tae sit wi’ him so he wouldna be alone. I didna want him tae die wi’oot a body wi’ him.”

  The man pondered the words. The only sounds were the breeze, which rose into an occasional swirl about their faces, and the gently splashing waves against the rocky shoreline below.

  2

  A Celt in the Making

  It has been said that the defining characteristics of the Celt are deep emotion and an intuitive bond with the natural creation. The man and boy shared a common link to that ancient heritage. In the brief moments they sat together, they were drawn into oneness by the birthright of their prehistoric pedigree. The very loneliness of this island they called home, the wind surrounding them, the breaking waves of the sea, the cries of the gulls in the distance, even the faint odor of peat smoke drifting on the island breezes from the village, combined with the poignant broken creature-life between them to resonate in their hearts with the unspoken mysteries of life. The fullness of the hour pervaded their mutual Celtic consciousness.

  It was the most natural thing in the world for the approach of death to stir the Celtic temperament. From the unknown antiquity of its pagan roots to the symbolism of the gospel brought to Scotland’s shores by Columba in the sixth century, the Celts were ever conscious that the everlasting cycle of life—a story affirmed by nature year after year—was always being renewed. And death was part of it.

  The boy continued to stare at the bird. Though he intuitively sensed much truth hidden to those many times his years, death to him was yet a great unknown. Where did the life go?

  He had not yet reached the age when clan lore would seize him with visions that had fired the imaginations of Scots boys for centuries. When that day came, he would dream of fighting as a tartan-clad warrior with his clan beside Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn or bonnie Prince Charlie on the fields of Culloden. Whether it meant victory as at Bannockburn or defeat as at Culloden, the honor of fighting for Scotland’s freedom was the same. Centuries of failed history had taught Celtic Scots to revere the glory of its fallen as well as its triumphant heroes. Even in defeat, its legendary men and women represented the nobility of the Scottish character and the spirit of its nation.

  On this day, however, the boy’s heart was tender toward this tiny fallen creature. His was the grief of the Celt for whom death, whether in the field of battle or on a lonely moor, was honorable.

  Again the man broke the silence. He sensed the high stirrings of the moment. He was one acquainted with the Eternal Now of inner quietude. He felt the lad’s heart and shared his sorrow.

  “Ye’re often alone yersel’, laddie,” he said.

  “Not a bit o’ it, sir. I hae the wind an’ the sea an’ a’ the animals for my frien’s. There’s yer sheep an’ ponies an’ my daddy’s cows, an’ a’ the birds on the island. Hoo can a body be alone wi’ such life aboot?”

  The man smiled. Spoken like a true Celt, he thought to himself.

  “Weel, wee Mannie,” he said, “there’s mair wisdom in that head under yer shock o’ red hair than most has any idea. I’ll bide wi’ ye an’ yer wee friend.”

  This time the silence remained for some time. No more words were needed. The hearts of this boy and this man had joined in care for the fallen creature between them.

  They would remain special friends for the rest of their lives. Henceforth, whenever they met and a quiet smile passed between them, their thoughts would stir with reminders of this day.

  3

  Shared Passing of Life

  After some time, another figure approached.

  Book in hand, a young woman came toward the man, boy, dog, and bird.

  Observing the scene and drawing toward it with slowing step, she felt something momentous at hand. She did not speak, yet felt no reluctance to join the silent gathering. Though a stranger to the island, she sensed that her presence would be welcome.

  The girl sat down a few feet away. At first glance, her age would have been difficult to determine. She was not tall, probably an inch or two above five feet, and of such a childlike countenance that a hasty observer might have taken her for fifteen. The expression of peace in her eyes, however, spoke of maturity beyond the teen years. She was, in fact, a few months into her twenty-second year.

  The man turned and smiled. He did not know her, but he knew the look in her eyes.

  “We are helping this little bird die in peace,” he said serenely.

  She smiled and nodded. This was no season for words. Like him, she was acquainted with the Great Silence.

  After perhaps twenty minutes a soft moan sounded from the dog. His dog-soul felt a change. The boy’s attention was riveted on the tiny form on the grass. He saw a slight flutter. The next moment it was over.

  The boy stared down for another few seconds. Liquid grief gliste
ned in his eyes. He blinked hard, then at last stood.

  The man reached into his pocket and dug out a small coin. He reached up and handed it to the boy.

  “This is for ye tae remember the day, Sandy,” he said. “Ye canna spend it for a sweetie in Mistress Macpherson’s shop. ’Tis a wee token tae keep. I want ye tae tell me one day when ye ken what it means.”

  The boy took the coin, looked down at it a moment where it lay in his palm, then pocketed it. He turned and gazed into the man’s eyes.

  “Shall we bury the wee birdie, Sandy?” asked the man.

  “’Tis naethin’ mair tae be done,” the lad replied. “God will take care o’ it noo.”

  The boy turned and walked away across the moor. The sheepdog jumped up and bounded away after him.

  Man and girl were left alone. Neither wanted to spoil the mystical moment.

  At length the young woman rose also and walked away toward the village. The man remained, a dead sparrow at his feet, staring out from the bluff over the sea, contemplating many things.

  4

  First Entry

  The newcomer to the island was a young woman who courted solitude as the anchor for her soul. What further this adventure far from home might hold in the days to come, she could not foretell. She merely knew that the brief encounter just past had sent indescribable emotions plunging into her heart.

  She had to be alone. She must write about it.

  Book still in hand, she wandered aimlessly along the bluff overlooking the sea in the general direction of the village from which she had come earlier. After a short time she turned inland over the heathery turf of the moor. In the distance the terrain rose toward a hill of modest height in the center of the island. At its peak she saw what appeared to be a pillar of some kind. What it was made of she could not tell. It bore investigation. But the hill was too far away for a leisurely walk. At the moment her mind was not set on exploration.

  She spied a flat boulder ahead, walked to it and seated herself comfortably on its surface, still reflecting on the boy and man. What a curious pair. She doubted they were father and son. The man was old enough to be the boy’s grandfather.

  And their colorful dialogue!

  She knew they were speaking English, at least that’s what the Shetland guidebooks called the language of these islands. But though the boy’s words had been few, she had scarcely understood a syllable. The man could not possibly have known her an American, for, hearing them, a sudden shyness had come over her and she had said not a word. Yet he had obviously sensed that the Shetland dialect would be a mystery to her and thus modified his own speech for her benefit.