From Across the Ancient Waters

by Michael Phillips

  “Fair enough.” Percy nodded. “Are you saying that my uncle has been in here?”

  “He has indeed. After you left last time, something peculiar seemed to get into him. He comes to the village now, visits with people, comes in and buys pints for the fishermen and talks to them just like you always did. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d got religion. He talks to me like we’re old friends.”

  “I am glad to hear it. And speaking of the manor, do you mind if I leave my bags with you for a few hours?” Percy asked. “I’ll walk up to the manor and be back for them this evening or tomorrow morning.”

  “Not at all.”

  “But I will have a pint of your special ale first.”

  Carrying his glass, Percy walked toward a table where a few of his fishermen acquaintances were seated. They greeted him almost as they might a friend. He visited with them for half an hour or so and caught up on village news. He learned nothing of note other than confirming that they, too, had seen a change in his uncle. At length he bade them good afternoon.

  Without his bags, Percy walked briefly about the village and looked in at several shops, always receiving the same warm greeting from the shopkeepers. Two or three made the same comment. “Oh, won’t Lady Florilyn be excited to see you!”

  At length he approached the smithy. The familiar pounding of hammer on anvil could be heard from a long way off. He saw the father at the forge and the son at the anvil as he walked toward them. The sight brought a sharp intake of breath to his lips. The two were nearly the same size!

  “What ho, Percy!” cried Chandos as Percy came into sight. He dropped his hammer and bounded forward with outstretched hand. The great hulking seventeen-year-old nearly crushed his hand in his grip.

  “My, oh my, Chandos!” exclaimed Percy. “What a brute of a fellow you’ve become. It wouldn’t go well for me now if I tried to order you around like I once did. You would thrash me!”

  “No worry of that, Percy. You did me a great favor that day.”

  “How so?”

  “You made me see what I was becoming. I didn’t like what I saw. I wanted to be like you—a good young man. You helped set me on that road.”

  “I am more than a little amazed to hear you say it,” rejoined Percy. “But pleased, nonetheless. Hello, Mr. Gwarthegydd,” he said as the blacksmith came toward him with a smile and a black outstretched hand.

  “So you’re back, are you, laddie?”

  “For a while—just a visit. I am still at the university. I’ve a year to go, then law school after that.”

  “I always said you would make something of yourself. Too bad the same can’t be said for that high and mighty cousin of yours.”

  “I heard he had some trouble at school. What about Florilyn?” he asked. “I’ve been out of touch with everyone. Is she married yet … or engaged?”

  He spoke matter-of-factly, though in truth he knew the answer to his own question. His mother kept him closely enough informed that if a change of that magnitude had come along, he would know about it. But he hoped to get Chandos talking.

  Both father and son stared at Percy with odd expressions.

  “She’s not married, Percy,” said Chandos at length. “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, she’s twenty now. Many young women are married by twenty.”

  “She’s waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “What do you think, man?” exclaimed Chandos. “For you! There’s not a bloke in two counties who even looks at her now. Everyone knows how things stand.”

  “Everyone, it would appear, but me,” said Percy. He had hoped for news. But this was more than he had bargained for.

  By the time Percy set out from Llanfryniog, with much on his mind, it was a few minutes before seven o’clock. As he left town, he cast a glance inland to the cottage he longed to visit more than any other. But it was late. That was a visit that could not be rushed. To try to see Gwyneth now would delay him beyond a reasonable hour to arrive at the manor. They had much to talk about, not the least of which was why she had not come to meet him on the morning of his previous parting. He had been haunted ever since by unknown fears of what might have been the cause. The greatest of these had blossomed into the fear that she might no longer even be with her father, but that it might be she who had married during his absence, not Florilyn. He also had to find out what days Gwyneth was working now, if she was still at the manor. No brief visit would suffice. He would visit the Barrie cottage tomorrow, when he hoped to learn all.

  In the meantime, however, as he made his way out of the village, breathing in deeply of the coastal air, he took a brief detour along the promontory of Mochras Head. Notwithstanding his perplexity about the last time he had been here, he took time to walk to Gwyneth’s special place. He sat down and gazed out over the azure sea as it prepared a few hours hence to receive the golden orb into itself in its nightly burial, that the earth and its inhabitants might have their daily season of rest. There was no fog on this day. He only prayed that an explanation presented itself about the events of that day two years before and the meaning of the bouquet he had seen on the street—some explanation that did not break his heart.

  After ten or fifteen minutes of quiet reflection, as he allowed the peace of the “special place” to fill him again, Percy rose and continued on to Westbrooke Manor. He walked up the drive, keeping his eyes moving. He did not want to encounter Gwyneth like this, with a chance meeting as she was leaving the manor for home. But all was quiet, and he saw no one.

  He walked toward the great house. There were the new stables, completed now though mostly unoccupied. His feet echoed softly over the flagged paving stones of the entryway. He paused at the front door. Even after an absence of two years, he felt no duty to ring the bell. This was home.

  He turned the latch and went inside. The only voices he heard came from the kitchen in the distance, where the staff would be having their dinner. He walked through the entryway, along the corridor, and toward the dining room. At last he heard soft voices from the family. He paused, smiled to himself, then opened the door and walked into the room.

  Four heads turned toward him at once. A stunned silence followed. In their shock at seeing him in their midst, aunt, uncle, and both cousins all seemed for the briefest of instants not to know him.

  The silence did not last long. A great shriek sounded as Florilyn leaped from her chair, knocking it backward onto the floor behind her. “Percy!” she cried as she ran across the room to him and flung her arms about him.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Sonship

  Later that evening, when they had returned with the buggy after retrieving Percy’s bags from town, Percy and Florilyn left the house as a warm dusk descended. Without conscious intent, their steps led them toward the garden east of the manor.

  “So, it’s law, is it?” said Florilyn. “When you were here last you were talking about engineering and the church as potential professions as well.”

  “You have a good memory!”

  “I was paying attention.” Florilyn smiled. “I also had the benefit of an occasional letter from your mother to mine. Otherwise I would know nothing about how you had spent the last two years. So I really must thank you for all those long, newsy letters.”

  Percy laughed. “I know, I know,” he said. “I am sorry. I’ve been terrible.”

  “Yes, you have!”

  “You have no idea how demanding school is.”

  “It takes every minute of your time?”

  “Well, maybe not every minute. I admit that as a letter writer I am a failure.”

  “You write to your father, I hear.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “We don’t talk about ourselves or what we are doing.”

  “What do you write each other about, then?”

  “Ideas … theology.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  “Are you kidding? I love dialo
guing back and forth with my father about the ideas of faith. What could be more exciting than that? But I apologize for not keeping in touch better. I thought about you all a lot, if that is any consolation.”

  “Well … maybe it makes up for it a little,” said Florilyn playfully. “But just a little. A girl gets lonely, you know. She looks for letters in the post. Still … now that you’re here, I may decide to forgive you. So what made you decide that you wanted to be a solicitor instead of a minister?”

  “My father encouraged me in that direction.”

  “I would think he would have wanted you to follow him into the church.”

  “My father is too selfless for that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He is trying to help me discover what is best for me, not what he might prefer. In the end, we both felt that my personality would be better suited for law.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  Percy thought a moment. “It wasn’t anything specific,” he said. “We sought God’s guidance, of course. But there were no telegrams from heaven. God doesn’t reveal His will that way. My father says that the Lord speaks with a soft voice into our senses, with nudges into our hearts and brains, not shouts, with subtle pressures in one direction or another. He simply suggested we pray and see what we sensed, to see if we felt any of those gentle inward nudgings toward either ministry or law. By then we had pretty much omitted engineering.”

  “And did you … feel the nudging, I mean?”

  “Gradually, yes. I can’t say exactly how. Like my father says, it was subtle. I found myself thinking more about law and becoming enthusiastic about it. Then the offer of an internship came last summer from a solicitor’s firm in Aberdeen. That was the confirmation of circumstance.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My father says that God makes His will in our lives known by the subtle inner nudges in response to our prayers, and He confirms that leading by circumstance. He says that the Lord uses circumstances to confirm His leading, even occasionally to change the direction of His leading. As long as we’re not in a hurry and willing to wait, the two always line up at some point—the direction of the leading and the circumstances that make it possible to follow that leading. When the two line up, you can be confident that God might indeed be indicating a certain direction.”

  “Might be. That doesn’t sound very definite.”

  “You never know 100 percent. There’s a certain amount of guesswork involved in following the Lord’s leading. My father says that our own desires can interfere and make us think God is leading when we are really just following what we want to do ourselves. It is also easy to misinterpret circumstances and think they’re saying something they’re not. That’s why the most important thing in listening to God’s voice is to set aside your own desires and ambitions. And then be willing to go slow in making decisions. That’s another thing my father says, that God is never in a hurry.”

  “You make it sound like the decision of what you should pursue was your father’s. Wasn’t it ultimately your decision to make?”

  “Sure. But I placed the decision before him and asked what he thought I should do. He is my father. My life is not entirely my own. It can never be.”

  “Your life is not your own?”

  “I said not entirely my own. We are linked to those who came before. I believe we have a duty to them.”

  “You have a duty to do what your father wants you to do, even now that you are a grown man?”

  “Not completely. Of course not. But to a degree, yes. The fact that he is paying for my education gives him the right to offer his input. And I genuinely want it. The generations of families is very important in God’s economy. We have a duty to our ancestors, to live faithfully and to honor their names. It is not an idea that is much in vogue today when most perceive that they have no duty to anyone but themselves. But we do have duties that extend wider than that. In that lineage, my father is the one God placed immediately over me. That fact carries great weight. It carries the assumption that my father perceives it as his duty to help me find what God wants me to do. He does so not to please himself but to help me fulfill my place in God’s plan.”

  “Do you think your father really thinks of all that every time you ask for his advice?”

  “Absolutely. I know it for a fact. He seeks my best, not his own. He always seeks the best of others, not himself.”

  “He sounds like a remarkable man.”

  “He is. That’s why I know I can place my uncertainties in his hands and that he will seek only my absolute best. That is the whole basis of the thing—my assurance that my father wants the very best for me. Even if he didn’t, I would still consider it my duty to heed him, even to obey him if he made it a matter of obedience. But hey—you know all this. My mother says you have been reading MacDonald. My father is like David Elginbrod to me. I realize that not all fathers are as wise as mine. I can imagine it being very difficult to obey if you did not have the assurance that your father or mother was seeking your best. In a way, I suppose, I have it easy. I know that about my parents. It makes it easy to heed their advice, even to obey them on the rare occasions now when it might still come to that.”

  “Most people our age would laugh to hear you say such things,” said Florilyn. “They would consider you loony. But you’re right. It does sound like the sort of father-son relationship MacDonald talks about. I can hardly imagine what Courtenay would say!”

  “I am sure that is true,” smiled Percy. “But for the first time in my life I am at peace being the son of my father. I do not intend to lose out on what being a son can teach me. I am not anxious to be independent of him. And since I am still young, and since I spent some years in rebellion, my father is in a position to know what is best for me better than I am myself. That’s what it means to trust his wisdom. It means trusting him to know my best even above my own desires, trusting him, in a sense, to speak for God in my life.”

  “You make it sound as though he makes all your decisions.”

  “Not at all. Every individual grows into an autonomy and independence as a man or woman in their own right. That is exactly what every parent ought to be working toward. My father wants that very thing for me. He doesn’t tell me what to do. But I want his advice and counsel. He gives me his impressions, helps me focus on spiritual principles, points out factors I may not have considered. And he will sometimes urge me very strongly in one direction or another. But in the end, he always encourages me to make my own decisions. Now, at least that’s what he does. Five years ago he made me come here. I had no choice then because I was incapable of wise choices. I was sixteen and rebellious. I had been in trouble with the police. It’s different now. Part of that process is his trust of me, too.”

  “I think I begin to see … a little,” said Florilyn thoughtfully.

  “It’s really a wonderful thing—the more I trust him, the more he trusts me. That’s why our dialogue is based not on either of us trying to convince the other to any particular point of view but about mutually trying to figure out what is best. In that my father’s vote, you might say, weighs very heavily, even though the ultimate decision rests with me. That probably sounds contradictory, but that is sort of how the mechanics of the thing work in practice.”

  “Will you ever consider yourself fully on your own, so that you don’t think about what your father says?”

  “I hope not. My father is a wise man. Why would I ever not want to glean as much of that wisdom as possible? As long as I live, he will always be ahead of me spiritually simply because he is older and has been listening to God’s voice longer. And he still wants the wisdom of his father, even though, as you know, Grandpa has been in China for ten years. In the same way, I will always be spiritually ahead of my children, if I have any, in the same way. That’s the way the generations are supposed to work. I will go to my grave, long after my father is dead, still doing my best to learn from his wisdom. I think t
hat’s the way God intended it to be with sons and fathers.”

  “I doubt that’s the way Courtenay looks at it!” laughed Florilyn.

  “Courtenay has not spent his life developing spiritual eyesight. It grieves me to say that for most of my life I didn’t either. I have only been learning to see my father in this way for five years. That’s why I am trying so hard to listen to him and learn from him now, even though I am no longer under his roof and technically, I suppose you might say, on my own. And as I said, my father still sees himself learning from his father, where he is the son. Of course, Grandpa recognizes him as a man of God in his own right, because that’s what he prepared him to be. But my father looks up to him just as I look up to my father.”

  “It must be remarkable to be part of something like that,” said Florilyn. “I knew that Grandfather and Grandmother Drummond had gone to China, but sad to say, Mother has learned not to talk about spiritual things around the rest of us. I feel bad about that now. I had no idea all that was at work between … well, all three of you, I guess.”

  “I admit that it is not very common. But as I said, I believe it is God’s pattern.”

  They sat down on one of the garden’s stone benches. Dusk was closing heavily around them. It was now after ten o’clock. The sounds of evening drifted toward them from the nearby trees. They sat for several minutes.

  “What about … your future?” asked Florilyn, at length voicing the question that had been on her mind for two years. As she spoke, her voice betrayed a slight quiver.

  “That’s one of the things I hope to resolve while I am here,” replied Percy.

  As much hopefulness as Florilyn might have hoped to take from his answer, his expression revealed nothing. “What does your father think … about us?”