The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  He grew yet more pensive.

  “The last time I saw him, he and I sat here together for hours,” he went on. “The years of separation seemingly gushed out. Depths were opened in both of us. He told me about his favorite books and authors. It was a side of my father I hadn’t known as a boy. Though I am now over fifty myself, I realize how much I still have to learn about him.”

  Brogan took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Every inch, every book, every memento, speaks volumes about the man he was.”

  “You cannot imagine the joy it gives me to hear you say those words,” said Sally. “I needed to know if you had eyes to see what is here. I suspected it after your last visit. When I saw you and your father walking out on the island together, heads close in conversation, and when you disappeared in here for hours at a time, I sensed that deep waters were flowing. Hearing you say what you just did, I know more than ever how true that was. You are seeing into who your father truly was . . . and is.”

  “I am beginning to see,” said Brogan. “It makes me all the more regret those years of my youth—even my prodigality, in a sense—when I did not value the wisdom he had built into my life. I know it grieved him that I misspent some of my best years keeping him at arm’s length.” He paused and smiled sadly. “Yet the memory of that makes me all the more appreciative of the constancy of his love for me.”

  “Did you and he ever talk about that time?” asked Sally.

  Brogan nodded. “Yes, we did. We shed a few tears together. Though that time with him was precious, the years apart could not be recaptured. We were grateful for the reunion, but it was not enough. I know we both wanted more.”

  Brogan heard his wife crying softly. He reached for her hand.

  “I believe that the secret to that more,” said Sally at length, “even the secret to regaining those years, may lie in this room. In what way, I cannot say. Something is here that will be revealed, whether to one of us or one who comes after, I have no idea. Your father’s vision of what life with God truly means, his life’s prayer, will live on. It will bear a hundredfold fruit . . . somehow, God only knows. I sincerely hope and pray that that fruit will live on as the inheritance of this family is passed to others, extending into future generations through men and women of Ernest’s posterity who are not yet born, even in the lives of your own grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who may one day sit in this very office again.”

  As she spoke, Brogan continued to gaze about, sensing the eternal import of all that surrounded him.

  “This room, this study, these books, his Bibles, your father’s writings,” Sally went on, “everything here is his earthly legacy. His character, of course, is the true legacy. Yet this room will always be a reflection of the character of the man we knew and loved. It was the greatest privilege of my life to share your father’s spiritual journey. Whenever he and I sat here together, to talk, to pray, even if it was just on occasion to enjoy our morning coffee here, I always had the sense that I was entering the inner sanctum of Ernest’s deepest humanity. I’m sure you felt that when you shared this room with him seven years ago. This was the prayer closet of his soul.”

  86

  The Bard

  “All this explains why I asked the two of you to join me here,” said Sally, breaking the silence. “With Wallace and Priscilla moving into the Cottage—I can hear them unloading furniture below us even as we speak!—much is certain to change. Even before Ernest told me of his plans, I knew Wallace would one day take up residence in the Cottage. But I vowed that no one would touch this room. Ernest tried diligently to make peace with Priscilla, yet I could see in her eyes that she considered him a doddering, pious old fool rather than a man to be honored.”

  Sally grew pensive.

  “Having been subject to her influence for so long,” she went on, “I honestly have no idea what Wallace now thinks about your father’s spirituality. Every man and woman has to decide how much of their early influence they will carry into their adult years. Wallace and I don’t really talk. I am firmly convinced, however, that if she has the chance, Priscilla will dismantle this office, sell off the books, and dispose of Ernest’s possessions and writings into the rubbish bin.”

  “She wouldn’t!” exclaimed Brogan’s wife.

  “Don’t be too sure, dear. Remember the confiscation of the letters,” said Sally. “But as I say, I determined that it would never happen. I have taken steps to make sure of it. Ernest didn’t think about his legacy. He assumed his four children would split up his books and whatever else you wanted and take the rest to a charity shop. I knew it was up to me to preserve his books and personal things. I am willing, as I said, to be a dutiful ex-laird’s wife. But Priscilla will not touch this office.”

  “Couldn’t you simply tell Wallace and Leith and Delynn to preserve it as is?” asked Brogan. “And then . . . I don’t know, everyone could make use of it as a study and library.”

  Sally’s smile was full of sorrow. “I would have no confidence that Priscilla might not eventually persuade Wallace to go against my wishes. They will be living here. As possession is nine-tenths of the law, Leith and Delynn would be powerless to do anything about it, especially after I am gone. Even if she were prevented from actually disposing of Ernest’s possessions, Priscilla could crate them up and put them in storage and turn the room into her own private salon.”

  Brogan shuddered at the thought.

  “So, as I said, I have taken steps,” continued Sally. “Over his initial objections, I finally prevailed upon Ernest to stipulate this office and its possessions as mine throughout my lifetime, as a separate part of my flat within the main house, and mine to pass on the use of as I think best. He said it was unnecessary, that Wallace would know how best to accomplish my wishes. But I persuaded him, and it was written up as a codicil to the will, which I asked Mr. MacNaughton not to divulge. No one knows of it except you two.”

  She breathed out a long sigh. “Priscilla will hit the roof when she finds out. I intend to tell her while the two of you are here. That may blunt the force of it somewhat. With you and Wallace and Leith backing me, I don’t think Priscilla will dare oppose me. Even if she does, the arrangement will be legally binding. I will tell her that I will do all she asks of me to the extent my conscience allows. But I will also tell her ‘You will not go into the study.’ As angry as she will be, I think Priscilla is superstitious enough to be wary of intruding on the domain of the dead.”

  “Just what does the codicil provide?” asked Brogan. “What other steps have you taken?”

  Sally did not reply immediately.

  “You know your father split the titles between Wallace and Leith,” she said at length. “I always held out hope that you might return and become laird after all. Your father knew you were content with your decision to give up the inheritance. Before you met again during the war, he told me he intended to offer it to you once more.”

  “Which he did,” Brogan said. “We talked and prayed together. I reaffirmed that I was at peace with it.”

  Sally nodded. “He had to struggle with it a while longer, but he came to be at peace with it as well. That being the case, I intend to add a third component to the inheritance so that all three of Ernest’s sons will share equally in his legacy.”

  “If you’re talking about finances and money, Sally . . . honestly there is no need. With Grant taking a greater interest in our furniture business, we are back on our feet and—”

  “It’s not that, Brogan,” said Sally. “There is precious little of actual cash to spread around, especially with a separate provision now being made to support a chief as well as a laird. Wallace and Leith will have their hands full simply making ends meet. Rents have not kept pace with expenses, I’m afraid. However, I am speaking of your father’s entire legacy. The final third of that legacy—in addition to the lairdship and chieftainship—is symbolized by what this room represents.”

  Again Sally paused thoughtfully. “Your father con
sidered himself a Highland Scot as much as a Shetlander,” she continued. “He was deeply proud of his MacDonald roots and their traditions. Therefore, along with the lairdship and chieftainship of our small clan, I am taking it upon myself as the chief’s wife and widow to add a third title.”

  “Another title besides laird and chief?” asked Brogan.

  “Yes, I am appointing a bard to our small clan,” Sally answered.

  “A bard,” repeated Brogan. “I thought they went out in the eighteenth century. Harps, poets, holy men and all that?”

  “I prefer to think of a bard as a spiritual seer, a visionary, one who sees into God’s eternal purposes.”

  “Ah . . . I see what you mean. That describes my father to perfection!”

  “Perhaps it is old-fashioned. It’s certainly more Celtic than Shetlandic. But maybe it’s time to reclaim some of the old ways. And I believe the bardship can be a powerful symbol. I believe it represents your father, and that matters more to me than anything.”

  “Acknowledging my father posthumously as honorary bard—I love the idea!” exclaimed Brogan. “You shall have my full support as well.”

  Sally’s lips parted in an enigmatic smile. Slowly she nodded.

  “You have apprehended my meaning perfectly,” she said, “as I was sure you would. You indeed understand the spiritual legacy your father left behind. Therefore, I am certain you will also understand the importance of protecting this room. Though the bardship may be honorary, my rights over this room will be legal and binding. Ernest’s will also gives me power to transfer those rights. I intend to do so by naming a Keeper of the Key to act as caretaker—curator, if you will—of the former laird’s private sanctum. This room will henceforth be the Bard’s Chamber. As I said, I have instituted legal steps to ensure that it remains as it is, outside the jurisdiction of either laird or chief . . . or spouse. The Keeper of the Key will have sole right of possession, transmission, and occupation of this room and all its contents. If he becomes unable to act in that capacity, or fails to pass it down, the title will devolve to the chief.”

  Sally gazed deeply across the desk into Brogan’s eyes. When she spoke again, it was in a voice of authority.

  “Brogan Tulloch,” she said, “I am naming you Keeper of the Key to the Bard’s Chamber.”

  87

  The Key

  In spite of the solemnity of the moment, Brogan’s mind was spinning with practicalities.

  “But, Sally,” he said, “we will be leaving soon. I understand about preserving the room. And I appreciate the confidence you have in me. But shouldn’t you keep the key so you can continue using the study? I will be in no position—”

  “I can’t risk it, Brogan,” rejoined Sally. “What if my own time comes suddenly? I don’t want to trust matters to happenstance if the key remained in the house. I must secure the intent of the document I have drawn up well beyond any possibility of mischief.”

  As Sally’s resolute tone sank in, a deep solemnity settled upon her stepson once again.

  “What few books and other things I would like to keep,” Sally went on, “I will take to my new rooms. Beyond that, when you leave Whales Reef and lock this door behind you, your father’s legacy as contained in this room will remain sealed until your return, or until you pass on the responsibility I am entrusting to you.”

  “But . . . shouldn’t possession of the key and the preservation of Dad’s legacy rest with one who is actually here on the island?”

  “Just the opposite. It will be more safely protected for posterity by one who is not here. Not even Priscilla, or another of like ambition, will dare break the door down to gain access. As much as she despises what this room stands for, she will be sufficiently cautious of gossip and tradition, not to mention the wrath of the gods, to prevent her bringing in workmen with axes and sledgehammers. The key must remain safely out of reach.

  “I am hale and hearty,” Sally continued. “I hope to live many more years and entertain you for many more visits. I have to meet that granddaughter of yours! Ernest was so thrilled when your letter came three years ago! However . . . one never knows the future. Therefore, I intend to conclude these arrangements while you are here, so that when you leave, everything this room represents will be protected and preserved.”

  Sally paused, stood, picked up the key from the desk, and walked out from behind it and took her place in front of her stepson.

  “Rise, Brogan,” she said.

  Brogan did so.

  Sally held out her two hands in which lay the key.

  “Brogan Tulloch, son of Ernest Tulloch, Keeper of the Key to the Bard’s Chamber, this key and the contents of this room are now yours.”

  Brogan bent forward and kissed Sally on both cheeks. “You do me a great honor,” he said in a husky voice. “I pray I will be worthy of your trust.”

  “I have one additional bequest,” she said after a moment. She took up two slender volumes from the desktop. “Your father wanted you to have these two books. His affection for the perspectives of certain Quaker writers was deep and lifelong. These two volumes were rooted in his own spiritual pilgrimage and were among his most prized possessions. Because of your own Quaker affiliations, he knew the two of you would value them as he did.”

  “Thank you, Sally,” said Brogan. “We will treasure them.”

  He extended his arms around his stepmother and wife. The three stood silently in affectionate embrace, reflecting on the import of what had been established on this day. All three felt the presence in this room, as they had the day before in the cemetery, of a cloud of witnesses—historical, literary, and spiritual—that had gone before.

  Most of all they were keenly aware of the man who had gathered the wisdom of so many other witnesses about him. This room had been his home. They would miss him. But his spirit would live on in their hearts.

  88

  The Legacy

  The following afternoon, Sally Tulloch walked slowly about the private sitting room and adjoining bedroom and lounge that she and Ernest had shared throughout most of the first half of the century.

  They had lived through both world wars and the Great Depression together. It was time to say good-bye to these rooms. The changing of the guard had come. Priscilla had given her three days to transfer her belongings to the south wing.

  Sally moved to the sitting room’s large window that looked out upon the eastern shoreline and northern quadrant of the island. In the distance, walking across the moor, their backs to her, she saw Ernest’s three sons. They were close together, Brogan in the middle, eldest and tallest, his arms slung in filial camaraderie around the shoulders of his two brothers. The three were obviously engaged in deep conversation.

  Sally smiled. A wave of peace swept through her. She closed her eyes and exhaled a contented sigh.

  Ernest’s sons were together. Whatever their differences of outlook, spiritual direction, and personality, whatever years and miles and even wives had separated them and may separate them again, the three Tulloch men loved, honored, and respected one another.

  Ernest had done his job well.

  His legacy would continue. The generations lived on. All three, each in their own way in the years to come, would send down their own roots into an ever-expanding family posterity.

  Thus the proud heritage of their family name would spread in widening circles into the lives of sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters, and all who came after them.

  89

  Are Not Two Sparrows Sold For a Farthing?

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  The great room of the Cottage fell silent as Alexander Innis concluded his narrative.

  “Thank you, Sandy,” said Loni at length. “You have filled in so many pieces of the puzzle. I had no idea I had such a rich heritage.”

  “Lady Sally an’ I visited many a time,” said Sandy with a pensive tone. “An’ through the years she told me a good many bits o’ the story beyond what I saw an�
�� heard wi’ my own eyes an’ ears.”

  “I have one more question,” said Loni. “It seems I have already asked five hundred today—I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Nae a bit o’ it, lassie.”

  “You told me earlier about the farthing the laird gave you, and that at the funeral you whispered that you knew what it meant. What did it mean?”

  Sandy smiled. “The laird kenned the day would come when I would read the passage aboot sparrows dyin’ an’ two bein’ sold for a farthing. He knew I would realize what the Lord meant aboot the Father’s care for His creatures, large an’ small. It was his way o’ telling a wee laddie that his life was valued by God, that I had worth, jist like that puir birdie was precious tae me as a wee boy.”

  He took the farthing from his pocket and again handed it to Loni. “Did ye notice the engravin’ on it?”

  Loni held it close, then turned it over. “It’s a sparrow!”

  “Aye. ’Tis the symbol o’ the Father’s care for His creation.”

  Sandy rose slowly to his feet. The afternoon had grown late. They had been talking for hours. He ambled to the fire, knelt down, and added a fresh handful of peat chunks to the flames.

  “That should keep it goin’ through the gloamin’,” he said. “I’ll come by tomorrow in the afternoon an’ show ye whaur the laird keeps his peats an’ help ye bring a fresh supply into the peat box here by the hearth.”

  “That is very kind of you, Sandy,” said Loni.

  “Noo, lassie,” he said, standing again, “ye’ll be wantin’ tae acquaint yersel’ wi’ this hoose an’ the folk that hae come afore ye. I’m thinkin’ by noo ye hae many things on yer mind ye need tae reflect on. ’Tis time I left ye on your own.”

  Loni walked with Sandy to the front door and bid him good-bye.

  Again she was alone in the Cottage. Yet she no longer felt alone. The heritage of the generations surrounded her.

  She returned to the great room and sat a long while thinking about Sandy’s recounting of the funeral fifty years before, and all the people who had been present. Already she had forgotten most of the names!