“Marie…I see you! Can you follow the light with your eyes? I am over here…there is an opening. It’s me, Marie! It’s Iain. Can you stand and come to me?”
“Iain…Iain…Oh, God…is it really—”
I struggled to my knees, hardly conscious what I was babbling.
“Iain…I’m here…Are you still there?…Help me! God…oh, God—is it really Iain?!”
“I’m here, Marie. Come toward me.”
I staggered toward the light, then fell on my knees a few feet away.
“Iain…Iain…I was so afraid!” I cried as I broke into uncontrollable sobbing. “How did you get…But where are you, Iain?…The hole is too small. I can’t get through.”
I collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Iain waited a few seconds.
“How did you get there, Marie? Tell me how to get to you.”
I struggled to stop crying and get a breath.
“Olivia…,” I whimpered. “I’m in the basement.”
“Basement…What basement?”
“I don’t know…below the church. I forgot where.”
“The church has no basement, Marie.”
“Not the basement…the crypt…the old crypt.”
“But where, Marie?”
“In the crypt…the basement…somewhere in the castle.”
“How can I find it?”
“The keys…Nicholls has keys…Iain, help me!” I said, struggling to my knees and to the little window that now had light coming through it.
“I will come to you, Marie. But you must be brave awhile longer. It will take me an hour, maybe more. But I will come to you, Marie. Tell me where to go. You must tell me how to get there.”
“From the basement…a long corridor beneath the castle…a tunnel…It’s blocked up…Nicholls has keys. Get the keys…a big brass key. Unless Olivia hid them. She is not nice to me, Iain. She said terrible things. She left me here, Iain. She is not nice.”
“I know, Marie. But when we have the keys, where do we go?”
“There’s a room…in the old monastery…at the end…on the right, I think…or is it the left, I don’t know…and a broom, find the broom…holy water font in the room…There’s a lock in the corner…it’s hard to see…under a stone in the floor…You have to sweep the floor to find it…An old lock under the floor opens the door…a stair leads down the crypt…Olivia may have blocked it…Get through the stones to the oak door…behind the oak door. That’s where I am. I tried to break it but wasn’t strong enough. Please don’t leave me in the darkness. I can’t find my torch. Oh, Iain, I’m cold and afraid.”
“Here, take mine. Try to find yours.”
He handed his flashlight through the opening. My fingers fumbled for it and met his hand reaching through. I clasped it with mine and held on for dear life, sobbing again.
“Is it really you? It feels like you—is that your hand, Iain? Don’t let me go…Please, don’t let me go.”
“I have to, Marie. But just for a moment.”
He pulled his hand away. “Find your light, Marie.”
I turned frantically back into the room. I found the light over beside the Queen where I had dropped it. Its beam was weak. I staggered back.
“Give it to me,” said Iain. “Hand it through the opening. You keep mine. It will be brighter.”
“Iain, Iain…I can’t believe you came. I was so afraid. Thank you. Oh, Iain…I thought I would die.”
“Here is a bottle of water, Marie,” said Iain, handing it through the opening. “Drink it slowly, very slowly. You have had nothing in almost three days. Only sip at it. I will be back before you know it.”
“Please don’t go. I don’t think I can bear it.”
“Be brave, Marie. You can do it. I know you can. You are a courageous woman. Be brave, Marie. God is with you. He was with you all the time. He led me to you. Don’t despair. I am coming. I will bring Ranald; he will help me find you.”
“No…no, Iain. Ranald mustn’t come. Winny is with me, Iain. Ranald mustn’t see her. It would break his heart.”
“I understand, Marie. I am going now, but only for a while. Be brave. Play for me again, so I will hear you when I find the basement. Play the hymn about angels’ harps.”
“Oh, yes…I can do that. I will play for you!”
Chapter Seventy-one
Light of Day
Wi’ thousands to adore her
She loves me only surer;—
An angel may be purer,
But not mair sweet than Mary, O.
My blessings on thee, Mary,
my bonnie blue-eyed Mary;
The love I bear my fair one,
Is all my heart can carry, O.
—“My Blessings on Thee, Mary”
I can hardly say what was worse, to have been losing my mind talking to the bones of Winny Bain and playing my harp in the darkness, or the two hours that followed, my senses awake again, full of hope, invigorated by a few drinks of water, yet aware more keenly than ever that I was trapped in a crypt with dead people’s bones…and that if something happened to Iain in the meantime, my plight would be worse than ever.
I went to my harp. Weak though I felt, still talking to myself, I began playing again. I was determined not to stop until Iain returned.
It seemed like days, not hours. My hands and fingers grew so tired I could barely hold them to the strings.
Eventually I heard sounds, muffled at first…the tromping of feet…then a great metallic clank…and the room flooded with light.
I tried to stand. My head swirled…I saw Iain…I think Nicholls, Alicia. Everything was a blur.
Iain hurried toward me and I dropped in a faint. I knew nothing as he ran back through the tunnel with me in his arms, followed by the others. Neither did I remember being hurried up stairs and through corridors and outside into the waiting ambulance summoned by the frantic call from the policeboat as it sped Iain back to the harbor. I vaguely recall hearing its siren, and being faintly aware of Iain at my side holding my hands and speaking into my ear. But all went black again.
I woke up several hours later at Dr. Gray’s Hospital in Elgin.
When at last I opened my eyes, I actually felt surprisingly good. The IVs in my arms had been pumping fluids into me long enough to have stemmed the worst of my dehydration. My hands were bandaged and I was conscious of tremendous weakness. They had feared mild hypothermia as well as dehydration. My temperature in the ambulance was only 94 Fahrenheit, but was now climbing steadily back. I was hungry enough to eat a horse, though I had to settle for gelatin and Popsicles and broth the rest of the day.
I glanced around the room and tears flooded my eyes.
Mrs. Gauld stood there crying. I couldn’t believe it. And around the bed stood Alicia and Nigel and Cora, Nicholls, Farquharson, Tavia, Fia, Ranald, several of the other maids, Reverend Gillihan…and of course Iain.
I tried to say something. But only a croak came out. The entire room burst into chatter and tears and laughter, some cheering, hugs and hand squeezes, everyone talking at once and more joy than I would have thought one small room capable of containing. I smiled so big my chapped lips began to crack. When at last I succeeded in finding my voice, my first words surprised me as much as anyone.
“Does she know?” I asked weakly.
No one doubted who I meant.
“No one has breathed a word,” replied Iain. “We thought you ought to have the privilege of telling her yourself.”
“I can’t imagine what I will say,” I said.
“I have the feeling words won’t be necessary,” rejoined Iain.
I glanced around and realized that there was one other face missing.
“And Sarah?” I said.
“She cudna stand no’ comin’ wi’ us,” said Cora. “She’s been sair upset aboot ye. But somebody had tae stay wi’ her, ye ken. We cudna hae her gae wanderin’ off agin’, ken. Sarah’s got orders fae me that her mistress isna tae leave her room
s, no’ for the rapture itsel’!”
“There’ll be unco little worry o’ that, I’m thinkin’,” mumbled Nicholls.
From his side, Tavia now stepped close to the bed and held out her hand to me. A diamond sparkled from her fourth finger.
“Look, Marie,” she said. “Harvey celebrated your being found by asking me to marry him.”
“Tavia, it’s lovely!” I said. “Congratulations, both of you!” I turned to Harvey. “I must say, Nicholls, I am honored to have been able to help push you across the line. I was wondering how long it was going to take you.”
Everyone laughed and was treated to the rare sight of seeing Harvey Nicholls’s face go red.
I now looked sadly at Ranald. He nodded with a knowing expression. He had obviously been told.
“I am sorry, Ranald,” I said with a smile. “If it is any consolation, in a strange way she was good company and may have helped keep me alive. I had a vision of Winny with Gwendolyn in heaven. I hope it was real. I think it was. They were both playing harps.”
“What ither kind o’ music cud they be makin’ than the music o’ the angels?” said Ranald.
I looked over at Alicia. She was smiling and tears were spilling down her cheeks. “They were playing your ‘Heather Song,’ Alicia,” I said. “They invited me to play, too. I almost did…but I guess it wasn’t quite time for me to go be with them yet.”
Chapter Seventy-two
Home
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
—Robert Burns, “Auld Lang Syne”
They kept me in hospital two days. I felt fine after one. But it was precautionary, they said.
I was still weak, but I ate and drank as much as they allowed. I quickly felt on the way back to being my real self.
The men had already seen to the removal of the Queen from the crypt. Not knowing whether I would want to see her again so soon, with whatever emotional trauma the sight might cause, they did not bring her to the studio. But she was now safe inside the library until I decided what should be done about the damage to her. Winny’s bones had also been removed before I arrived home. She was placed in a small coffin and now lay in the funeral home in Buckie awaiting a further decision by Ranald of what to do.
All this took place outside the ken of Olivia Urquhart, who, not surprisingly considering the physical and emotional strain, had taken a turn for the worse since her own return from the crypt. She had scarcely left her bed since.
Upon returning to the castle, a visit to her room was one of my first items of business.
I asked Cora to go to Olivia’s apartment and relieve Sarah so I could greet her. She came flying down the stairs and into my arms, weeping like a child for happiness. I think she still more than halfway blamed herself for what had happened. Her relief was profound and the gush of tears humbling. To be loved is a wonderful thing. If possible, she was thereafter even more devoted to me than ever.
I left her and went upstairs. I nodded to Cora where she sat outside Olivia’s bedroom. She left the apartment and closed the door behind her. I walked into the bedroom.
Olivia glanced up. Her eyes fell upon me, seemed to flicker momentarily as if she were having a dream. I stood staring down at her. To describe my feelings would be impossible. I must say, I was pleased that I did not hate her. Neither can I say I loved her. I think I pitied her. Whether I could forgive her, that was not a question I was yet prepared to face. I hoped when the time came I would be capable of forgiveness.
Olivia took me in as if I had now become the ghost. She seemed unable to determine whether she was seeing things or imagining them. Maybe she thought I was dead. She showed no sign of recognition or response. She just stared. I returned her stare expressionless.
After a few more seconds, I turned and left the room.
If the episode in the crypt and the two days before it had weakened Olivia’s frail system, my brief visit to her—as ghost or real hardly mattered—taxed her remaining strength to the limit. She began to fail almost immediately. Whether the cancer was invading her organs more rapidly, or whether my appearance sapped her of the will to live, not even the doctors could determine. Her face thinned yet more in the coming days, she ate little, and left the bed only when Sarah or I helped her to the bathroom.
Sarah remained devoted to her service, for my sake, and one or the other of us was nearly constantly at her side. What nourishment and water we managed to get into her came from our hands. When we were unable or needed sleep, Ranald sat beside her, now and then holding a cup of water and straw to her thin wrinkled lips. I played Journey at the bedside, mostly Gwendolyn’s music. What Olivia thought of thus being ministered to by Ranald Bain and myself, no word or gesture ever revealed.
Chapter Seventy-three
Confrontation of Conscience
Fareweel my ain dear Highland hame,
Fareweel my wife an’ bairns.
There was nae repentance in my hert,
When my fiddle was in my airms.
I’ve lived a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:
It burns my heart I must depart,
And not avenged be.
—Robern Burns, “MacPherson’s Lament”
For several weeks, we took turns sitting by Olivia’s bedside, feeding and helping her drink. It was clear the strength was ebbing out of her. She showed no interest in anything nor sign of softening.
A day came when Iain was at the castle. By common consent, we all felt it was time we three—as a threefold cord representing the past, present, and future—looked Olivia in the eye to see if she was ready for what God desired to make of her.
We went to her room and sat down in three chairs around the bedside.
She was wide awake but displayed no response at seeing us invade her shrinking private domain.
Ranald was the first to speak. Even after all this time, as well as I knew him, his words stunned me. The depths of the man’s reservoir of godliness continued to astound me.
“I forgie ye, Olivia,” he said.
I glanced at her pallid face. The faintest motion flickered at her eyelids.
Again it was silent. My heart was stirred. God was speaking to me. I knew I was ready.
“I forgive you, too, Olivia,” I said at length.
“And I, too, Olivia,” now added Iain. “I also forgive you with the love and forgiveness of God.”
Again her eyes flickered and now slowly moved around the bed, resting a moment on each one of us.
“You…forgive me?” she whispered in a faint, rasping snarl, as if the idea were too huge to comprehend. She lifted her head an inch or two, and struggled with great effort to look at each of us again. “You forgive me…for what?”
“For yer sin, Olivia,” said Ranald. “Ye’ve lived a life o’ selfishness. Ye’ve hurt mair folk nor ye hae ony idea. ’Tis but ane way oot o’ the pit o’ hell for ye, sae that ye can lay haud o’ the forgieness o’ yer God an’ Father. We a’ forgie ye. But for the Father tae git his forgieness intil ye, intil yer verra hert, ye maun spier for’t. Sae I spier o’ ye agin, afore ye meet yer Max agin, an’ afore ye meet yer brither an’ oor dear Gwendolyn, an’ afore ye meet my Maggie an’ my Winny…I spier ye once mair, Olivia Reidhaven, what I spiered o’ ye afore—are ye ready tae see yersel’ for what ye are…Are ye ready tae repent?”
With what little life was left in her, Olivia turned her head toward Ranald, her eyes gleaming with the fire of what the Scots call “the ill place” itself. The words that came through clenched teeth of determination—slowly, arrogantly, barely audible as she clung to the lifeless thread of pride and independence—chilled me all over again like her horrid laughter in the crypt.
“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
We sat in stunned and silent disbelief. Olivia laid her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes, satisf
ied to have haughtily denied to the end the claim upon her dead conscience.
They were the last words she ever spoke.
Ranald rose from the bedside, shaking his head in sad disbelief, and left the room. Iain and I followed.
“I may hae jist come ower tae yer view o’ the thing,” he said to Iain with great seriousness as we walked along the corridor. “I think at last I unnerstand Geordie’s Lilith. I hae seen her wi my ain een. This can nae be the end o’ it.”
By nightfall, Olivia was dead.
Chapter Seventy-four
Closing Chapter
The settin’ sun, the settin’ sun,
How glorious it gaed doun:
The cloudy splendour raised our hearts
To cloudless skies aboon.
The auld dial, the auld dial,
It tauld how time did pass;
The wintry winds hae dang it doun,
Now hid ’mang weeds and grass.
—Lady Nairne, “The Auld Hoose”
Olivia’s death was the final closing of the Reidhaven chapter in the long saga of Castle Buchan and its storied history. It was a sad realization that reconciliation does not, even in the end, find a home in every human heart. It is possible to resist the call of Fatherhood’s voice till death, and beyond.
It was a bittersweet end to know that Alasdair, Olivia, and Gwendolyn were all gone. The family line was at an end. Whatever future lay in store for this proud castle, and proud family, now rested with me. I may always be an incomer, but I did not want to be an interloper to my historic Scottish name whose future, for good or ill, was now bound up in my own.
I vowed to do my best to discharge faithfully the duties and responsibilities that had, by so many twists of fate and destiny, thus fallen to my shoulders. Planning Olivia’s funeral was one of the first of those responsibilities I had to face. Given the circumstances, it was a very difficult one.
Heather Song Page 43