They chatted for a few moments more. It was clear, however, that this day would not bring the resolution David had hoped for.
David sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. He had never felt a greater sense of failure in his life. One thing was certain: he could divulge nothing of this to anyone. If only he hadn’t hinted to Murdoc that a change would be coming soon. He should have kept his own counsel. He would not make that mistake today. He had so hoped to be able to alleviate the Mill’s financial difficulties and to help Noak Muir get caught up on his medical bills. He would have to wear the mask, swallow his disappointment, put on a smiling face and happy disposition . . . and pretend that all was well.
A little after two he did his best to shove his doldrums to the back of his mind, dressed in his kilt and the other accoutrements of his family’s traditional Scottish regalia, and set out for the village. The official opening of the annual festival was slated for three o’clock.
By the time he arrived, the expanse in front of the Mill was swarming with islanders and tourists. David ascended the steps of the factory and waited for quiet gradually to descend on the crowd.
“Welcome to you all!” David called out. “Especially to you who have come from throughout Shetland to join us, and also from mainland Scotland and England. As chief of our small but proud island clan, I extend hearty greetings on behalf of the people of Whales Reef. May you find the warmth of our hearts refreshing to your spirits, and may your parting be no longer as strangers but as friends.”
A few cheers and shouts went up from the islanders to reinforce David’s words.
“While some of our traditions,” David continued, “reflect the customs of my family’s forebears in the Highlands west of Inverness, we are also keenly aware of our Norse traditions as well. It is always our hope to synthesize all the good our heritage has to offer from its varied and historic bloodlines. Thus, I wear the kilt of my clan today in honor of my Celtic roots—a proud Scot and a proud Shetlander.
“We want to congratulate all the prize winners in the handcrafts, cooking, and art exhibits. We invite you to visit the tents to see the creativity of your friends and neighbors. And don’t forget the sheep-shearing contest tomorrow afternoon, and tomorrow evening’s ceilidh with Scottish music and dance.
“Now I conclude with a traditional toast, which I leave with you. Here’s ta dee and dy folk, fae me and my folk. An I hope it whin dee and dy folk meets me and my folk at dee and dy folk is a blyde ta see me an my folk as me an my folk is at seean dee and dy folk.”
*Along with the wind and seabirds, sheep are ubiquitous throughout the Shetlands, their total population on the islands standing roughly at 400,000. Approximately a quarter of those are native Shetland breeds, predominately a blend of Soah and Spaelsau brought from Norway by the Vikings. The fine wool of some of the native breeds sheds naturally in the spring. These fleeces are not sheared but “plucked” annually. The hardy sheep of the Shetlands are small and can survive in very hostile weather conditions and are able to manage on a meager diet. Not only do they eat whatever grass is available, they also eat seaweed. They are protected from the possible dangers of grazing on the seashore by a keen awareness of tidal flow. Not only are they able to sense when the tide has shifted, but they are also highly sensitive to weather patterns, often taking shelter well before a gale has begun to blow. Sheep supply the Shetlanders not only with wool, but with the mutton that, in many forms, is a dietary staple.
49
Visitors and Memories
As the crowd disbursed, David wandered about, making an appearance in all the tents, shaking many hands and offering compliments for every display. This was one of the annual occasions where he took great pride in his role as chief—honorary as it might be.
About five o’clock he wandered into the Mill. He had hardly set foot inside when his cousin came hurrying toward him. The look on his face said clearly that he was hoping for good news. David did his best to let him down gently.
“No resolution yet, Murdoc,” he told him. “You are managing things as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Keep things going as best you can a while longer.”
MacBean left him, obviously crestfallen. David made his way amongst those drifting about the displays, greeting friends and many he had never seen before. At one side of the room his aunt Rinda sat at a spinning wheel. A small crowd clustered about, watching as she spun thin yarn out of a wad of wool roving at her feet.
“At yer spinnin’, I see, Auntie!” he said, forcing a broad smile. “Yer wheel spins sae fast it hums wi’ music a’ its own.”
“An’ what were ye an’ Murdoc holdin’ counsel aboot?” asked his aunt.
“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Auntie!” laughed David. “Just mill business.”
“Is somethin’ in the wind, David?”
“Only that we are hoping for better times soon.”
Before she could press him further, David heard a voice call his name. “Hello, Mr. Tulloch!” The accent was unmistakable. David turned to see two smiling middle-aged women hurrying toward him.
“Why if it isn’t my two American friends!” exclaimed David. “Hello, Miss MacFarlane, and good day to you also, Miss MacFarlane.”
“We simply must get you to call us Hazel and Freda, Mr. Tulloch,” giggled the woman who had just spoken. “We Americans are not so proper as you.”
“We’re here for your next tour, you know,” said Hazel, the older of the two spinsters.
“We made our reservations when we were here last fall!” added Frieda excitedly. “We always reserve ahead of time to make sure there is room for us!”
“We were hoping we would see you today,” Frieda added in a mischievous tone.
Everyone in the village knew of the two American sisters. They came at least yearly for David’s tours and were the subject of much discussion. They followed David about, tittering like schoolgirls, making no attempt to hide their infatuation with the handsome young chief. That David was so gracious, handling every comment and question with aplomb and kindness, only encouraged them to consider themselves his special friends and confidantes.
“We thought perhaps we could treat you to dinner at the hotel tonight,” suggested Hazel eagerly.
“I’m afraid Dougal Erskine and I are meeting with some sheep breeders this evening,” replied David. “Tomorrow, of course, is the ceilidh.”
“You will save a dance for each of us?” asked Freda.
“Do you know Scottish country dancing?”
“We are in a Scottish club back home.”
“Then I shall definitely find you for the Dashing White Sergeant!” laughed David.
As they were talking, David had been slowly walking toward the opposite side of the hall where tables and chairs were set up for Rakel Gordon’s felting workshops.
“Hello, Chief!” said twenty-nine-year-old Rakel as they approached.
“Hello, Rakel,” said David, stooping to kiss her lightly on the cheek.
“Did you hear that, Hazel,” giggled Frieda. “She called him Chief!”
David smiled good-naturedly. “Well, then, if you ladies will excuse me . . .” he said, then moved off through the crowd.
As he left the felting tables, David saw Armond Lamont walking toward him. The Englishman was attired as always in suit and matching waistcoat, topped to perfection with a black bowler hat. He looked as if he had stepped off a movie set.
“Hello, Armond,” David greeted him as they shook hands and exchanged a few pleasantries. “I would think you might have a good many customers on a day like this,” said David. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I just locked the door for a few minutes,” replied Lamont. “I, uh . . . I had a bit of business to tend to. I’ll have my Open sign back in the window in no time.” He glanced about the hall. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous.
“Do you manage some good business when visitors come to town?” asked David.
�
�A bit, but nothing much out of the ordinary,” answered the bookseller. “I don’t get many calls for a first-edition Martin Chuzzlewit or three-volume first of Sir Gibbie or an autographed Salted With Fire from those who attend country fairs. Still, one never knows. I set up a table of used paperbacks outside the door, and it attracts passersby.”
“Well, best of luck to you. I hope some collector comes in and takes that Dickens off your hands!”
Lamont nodded, then turned toward the felting table. David watched as he bent his head to speak to Rakel Gordon. In spite of the din, he was able to make out fragments of their conversation.
“. . . tomorrow evening . . . perhaps attend the ceilidh . . .”
From the blush on Rakel’s cheeks, David surmised the nature of the Englishman’s inquiry.
“. . . be working at the pub through teatime,” she said shyly.
“. . . come for you there . . . walk up together?” said Lamont.
David smiled to himself. So that was the business Armond Lamont considered important enough to close his shop! Good for him! thought David.
The object of the bookseller’s interest was a girl who had been mercilessly treated in her younger years. The teacher of the younger grades in the school at the time was the same Miss Barton under whom David himself had suffered, a woman with eyes only for the prettiest of the girls. Rakel was smart enough, but to one with eyes only for appearances the poor girl was singularly uncomely. Miss Barton did nothing to protect an awkward black sheep like Rakel from the cruelty of her peers.
During her teen years, while every one of them fell for the island’s young beauties, the boys of Whales Reef shunned Rakel Gordon like a pariah. Sadly, so too did most of the girls. The one happy exception was Audney Kerr.
Now, at twenty-nine and thirty-one, the two were the best of friends. Remarkably Rakel Gordon had grown into a happy young woman. But she had never been on what would have been called a date in her life.
By the end of the weekend, however, it would be all over the village that Armond Lamont had taken a fancy to Rakel Gordon.
Still smiling, David continued toward the door. He was proud of Armond Lamont. There was obviously more to the man than met the eye.
As he left the factory, David saw ahead of him the parish minister for the Church of Scotland on Whales Reef, Reverend Stirling Yates. Sight of the man of the cloth, with the American accent of Hazel and Freda MacFarlane still ringing in his ears, sent David’s thoughts back to that tumultuous time in the history of Whales Reef, and in his own life.
He had always sought the lonely moors and coastlines of the island during his seasons of pain as a boy, and as his sanctuary of thought and prayer as a man. In its own way, the loneliness of the island soothed his soul.
Unconsciously David glanced inland. In his mind’s eye he saw himself racing across the open spaces from his home, hot tears in his eyes, on a day so very different from this. It turned out to be the day, it could be said, when his manhood had begun.
———
A fourteen-year-old boy sprinted across the moor.
If such were possible he would drive the anguish from his heart by sheer exhaustion. But there was no escape. The horror still echoing in his ears was too overwhelming. He could not exorcize the dreadful demon of truth.
His lungs heaved in bitter sobs. He ran and ran . . . a mile . . . two miles . . . and beyond. He ran for fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes, as hard as he could force himself. At last his legs could carry him no farther. He collapsed a hundred yards short of the northernmost extremity of the island.
He fell to the ground, sucking for air as if fighting for life. Indeed, he was fighting for life—fighting for the most basic human instinct—the will to live. At last he gave full vent to his grief. Wails of suffering poured out. They rose from his lips and were quickly lost amid the moans of stormy winds and the cries of gulls, lamenting a universe grown empty and desolate.
Word had come less than an hour before. The single craft surviving the storm had struggled back to the harbor with the news. His father’s boat, missing all night, was lost at sea.
His father was dead.
Dead! The hideous word sent shivers of terror through the boy’s brain. He burst out sobbing afresh in great torment of heart.
How long he lay weeping, groaning, perspiring from his mad flight across the island, then sobbing again . . . time had no meaning in the midst of his anguish.
Ten minutes later . . . an hour . . . two hours . . . gradually he realized he was cold. An icy wind blew across the island out of the north. The boy climbed slowly to his feet. He was no longer crying. With effort he struggled to draw in a halting and unsteady breath of the frigid, unfriendly air.
Gradually he awoke to where he was. He was standing but a short distance from the treacherous cliffs on the island’s north shore, near the Chief’s cave three or four hundred yards farther west. This was arguably the most dangerous place on the island. Its overlook sat at the edge of a terrible cliff straight down to the jagged coastline below. He had come here with his father many times but had been forbidden to go near the cliffs alone.
Slowly he walked toward the bluff. Reaching what was known as the Great Cliff, he looked down. The sight was so terrifying his knees quivered. Wind whipped up the cliff face and blew him about unsteadily. The sheer drop of two hundred feet to the rocky shoals of the sea was fearsome, awe-inspiring. Yet on this day he did not fear it. Instead, it drew him with dark compulsion.
The gray sea below was wild and tumultuous. He gazed down, then out across the forbidding waters.
His father was out there . . . somewhere. The sea had been his life. Now it had taken his life.
A preternatural tranquility stole over the boy. It was the dispassion of resignation. Fate had brought him to this place. The island was full of stories of murders and suicides and lovers leaping from this exact spot into the abyss of death. Now it was his turn. Why should he not join his father?
If he leapt into the void, Miss Barton and Sister Grace would say he would fall straight into hell. But he would be with his father.
Who cared what they said. He hated them. He hated the Fountainites who were so religious they wouldn’t speak to you if you weren’t one of them. Reverend Aedon talked about God but was just as mean as the others. How could God be like them? People used to be kind to each other. That was before Sister Grace and Brother Wisdom poisoned their minds and told them they would go to hell if they did not acknowledge them as prophets.
He hated them all!
He hated prophets!
He hated churches!
He hated ministers!
He hated Americans!
Suddenly the tempest inside him poured out in a torrent.
“God,” he yelled into the face of the wind, “why did you take my father? I hate you, God . . . I hate you!”
His voice was lost in the wind.
The words echoed back upon him and suddenly terrified him. Fearing he had spoken doom upon his own soul, blaspheming the Almighty and bringing the wrath of his punishment down upon him, he stepped closer to the edge of the cliff.
He took in a deep breath, summoning his courage, terrified at the thought of jumping, yet resolved to do so. It was the only escape from the pain, from people, from prophets and ministers and Americans . . . the only escape from God himself.
All at once the wind in his face abruptly ceased. A great calm descended.
His heart filled with awe. Some presence was near. A chill swept through his body. Paralyzed by terror of the unknown, he tried to turn to see if someone was creeping up behind him . . . but he could not.
His eyes still gazed out to sea. In the midst of the calm now spoke a gentle whisper, borne invisibly toward him from where his father lay sleeping the sleep of death.
“I am your Father,” said the voice. “Find me . . . seek me . . . know me.”
As suddenly as it had stopped, again the tempest rose in his face from the sea. Co
ming to himself, all at once he realized where he was and how great was his danger. Hurriedly he stepped away from the cliff, then turned around. He was alone.
The next moment he was walking, calmly now and full of strange sensations, back over the moor in the direction of the Auld Hoose.
His quest after the great Fatherhood of the universe had begun.
As he went, it had not yet occurred to the fatherless boy that he was now chief of the very island over which he walked. Nor did he think that a higher calling now rested upon him. It would take years, and the gradual maturing of his manhood, for him to recognize the scope of that calling.
In years to come he would think about such things on more profound levels than he was capable of thinking about them on this day. The chieftainship would come to matter to him more than his own life. When that time came, he vowed that never again would a foreigner steal the legacy of his people or work division among them. And never again would a chief remain silent when his people were threatened by evil or falsehood.
———
The bittersweet memory flitted by in a mere second or two. David’s thoughts returned to the present. He summoned again the smile.
“Reverend Yates!” he said, falling in stride with the minister. “It is good to see you again. I was on my way to the sheep pens. Care to join me?”
“With pleasure. Tell me more about this species of sheep that you brought back from the verge of extinction.”
The Inheritance Page 22