Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  If that was true, then I hadn’t only let my dreams die, I had allowed a part of me to die with them. I wasn’t willing to accept that.

  I determined that I would dream again.

  It was during one of two afternoon lessons I had that day that I was reminded of a dream. I had been teaching one of the little girls who came to my studio after school a Celtic march called “Brian Boru’s March.” Suddenly as she was playing… I remembered!

  One of the dreams my husband and I had shared was to take a sabbatical and make an extended visit to Ireland or Scotland or Wales, Britain’s three Celtic regions. Maybe all three. It was a dream that hadn’t evaporated completely, though it had faded so distantly into the past that, when I recalled it to mind, it came back into my memory slowly at first. Then gradually more images returned. We had talked about spending a summer traveling by car. We even fantasized about renting a little stone cottage in the Highlands and spending a year out in the wilds alone. My husband would write the great American novel—we still called it that even though we were Canadians—and I would write songs and play my harp.

  Fanciful dreams. But maybe people need dreams to keep them going. Right then I needed to recapture mine.

  I don’t know why those Celtic countries had intrigued my husband. Though his name was Italian or French, I think he had Irish blood somewhere in his ancestry. He always talked about returning to connect with his Celtic roots, which for some reason intrigued him more than the Italian or French. My own introduction to those lands came through my study of Celtic music which I dearly loved. I had some vague sense that I possessed Celtic blood, too, on my father’s side. Maybe that’s why I liked the music. Something about the melancholy nature of Celtic harmony gets deep into your soul in a way other music doesn’t. It has a nostalgic feel of something long ago. The haunting melodies and themes of its folk songs and ballads draw you in. It is music you feel, not just hear. You want to be there. It’s music that makes you happy in a sad, quiet way, as contradictory as that sounds. At least that’s how it affected me. And at this phase of my life, that sad, haunting, melancholy Celtic music perfectly resonated with everything that was stirring inside me, and it drew me even more than before.

  Some people probably don’t like those kinds of feelings. I’ve always thought that one of the reasons music gets so deep into the human consciousness is that people are “tuned” in certain ways like musical instruments. Different types of instruments, like different types of people, make different sounds. The sound of brass is not the same as the tone produced by a violin.

  Some people have talkative, frilly personalities like a flute. Others stand out front as natural leaders like a trumpet. Others are gregarious like a clarinet. Others are more subdued like a bassoon. Others are full and complex like a viola or cello. Some are ordered and precise like a drum. Others are unpredictable like a French horn. And some are impossible to characterize and seem just a little different from everyone else, like an oboe.

  In the same way, I thought all men and women possessed an innate personality that was tuned in either a major or a minor key. That didn’t mean some people were always happy and others always sad. Some of the world’s most triumphant and joyous music is composed in minor keys. But there is an inherent difference between the sound and texture of the two that I think is replicated in people as well.

  My personality was one that vibrated to the rhythms of life in minor keys. Celtic music stimulated the nostalgic melancholy harmonies of those chords inside. Its melodies resonated within me in ways I couldn’t have explained. It could not be put into words. The music of personality was something each individual felt for himself. My husband would sometimes ask, “Can’t you play something peppy?” Then I would try to learn a peppy song or two. But I would always gravitate back to ballads and airs.

  So between my music and my husband’s ancestry, and maybe my own, many things Celtic slowly got under our skin during our years together. We devoured Irish and Scottish novels. We read How the Irish Saved Civilization and Angela’s Ashes and How the Scots Invented the Modern World. We were enthralled by the films Braveheart and Local Hero.

  That’s how our dream of visiting those places began.

  I had not thought of going to the islands and Highlands of Britain and Ireland in years. But after my dream and the sunrise, it all came back.

  I went into the living room and scanned the spines on my bookshelves. How could I have forgotten? There were Lillian Beckwith and Jessica Stirling and A Scots Quair and a few old-fashioned Waverly novels of Sir Walter Scott’s. I pulled out one of Lillian Beckwith’s novels and thumbed through it. Even as I saw the cover again after so long, and as my eyes fell on a few scattered words here and there, the memory began to return, like fragments of a dream flitting back into your brain after waking. I found myself smiling.

  Gradually I remembered more.

  I remembered talking wistfully about one day playing my harp on some lonely high-mountain crag, heather in bloom all around me, no one listening but a long-haired Highland cow or a handful of grazing mountain sheep. Or perhaps I would sit at the edge of a great cliff overlooking a wild rocky seashore with gulls rising and falling on the eddies of the sea breezes. I would play music of the soul, the vibrations of the strings of my harp intermingling with the whining of the wind and the gulls’ cries and the crashing of waves on the rocks below.

  Even if nothing came of it, just being reminded of that mental vision was invigorating. It was good to think again… to recapture hope… to dream of adventurous things.

  Why not actually do something like that? I wasn’t too old to travel, to see more of the world. What was stopping me?

  Money was not a problem. I lived so simply that I tended to accumulate more than run out. I had no debts. If I wanted to, I could take two years off before having to worry about money. What was I hoarding my little nest egg for, anyway? Why not use it to live with rather than saving it to die on?

  It would be good to get away, I thought, to see new places. I was in a dangerous rut. My life was going nowhere.

  It was time to dream again. And not merely dream… to live the dream. Maybe I had more control of what happened in my life than I realized.

  A small dream—a week or two, maybe a summer. It didn’t have to be a whole year. But it was a start.

  Maybe when it was over and it was time for me to return home, nothing in my life would change. Maybe I would resume my boring schedule and still be a middle-aged widow without much to show for herself.

  But somehow, if I could just find that mountaintop—or that ocean cliff—I knew that something would change… inside me. My life might not look different from the outside, but I would be different. I would have done something that might mean nothing to anyone else. But it would mean something to me. It would be a connection—to the memory of my husband, to the music I loved, to a history and a land I didn’t know much about but that nevertheless had once drawn me. I would have taken a step outside myself… into the great wide world beyond.

  The most important thing that unknown mountain and that unknown sea cliff came to represent was simply the fact of my waking up and saying, “I am not going to live forever in this rut. I am going to let myself dream.”

  It was a simple dream. But it was my dream. That’s what mattered.

  I went to a bookstore that same day and bought a guidebook for Ireland and Scotland. Then I went to a travel agency where I picked up some maps and brochures about airline travel and car rentals and lodgings.

  That was my one first step.

  Chapter Three

  An Adventure Begins

  The heath waves wild upon the hills,

  And foaming frae the fells,

  Her fountains sing of freedom still,

  As they dance down the dells.

  And weel I lo’e the land my lads,

  That’s girded by the sea;

  Then Scotland’s vales, and Scotland’s dales,

  And Scotl
and’s hills for me!

  I’ll drink a cup to Scotland yet

  Wi’ a’ the honours three!

  —“Scotland Yet”

  Stepping off the train at Inverness, standing there with my suitcase in one hand and the harp case of my Journey in the other, looking around wondering what to do next, that’s when the reality of what I had done hit home. Up till then—making plans, canceling lessons for the summer, actually setting out four months later and flying to London, somehow navigating the hopeless early morning confusion at Heathrow and taking a taxi into the city, asking a million questions wherever I went, then catching the all-day train north at King’s Cross Station to Edinburgh and then Inverness—the excitement of what lay ahead had carried me along in a blur of anticipation.

  Suddenly there I was. What next?

  A train station has to be one of the most depressing places in the world. Everyone is bustling and hurrying and running. Then between trains suddenly it goes quiet and deserted—cold, silent, dirty, impersonal. What few people are about wander back and forth making no eye contact. It would be different if I had someone to meet. But I didn’t.

  A wave of loneliness swept over me. With it came doubts: What am I doing here? There was no Celtic mystique. No music. No kilts. No Mel Gibson in his Braveheart getup. No bagpipes. No honeysuckle-covered stone cottages with sheep grazing beside them and heather in the distance.

  Just a dreary, empty, lonely train station.

  I found my way out front. There was a hotel adjacent to the station. But I’d made arrangements for a bed-and-breakfast from atravel guide. I looked around and found a taxi stand. It was grayand rainy, adding to the dreariness. Hearing the taxi driver’s Scottish accent was a bit of a thrill. And he was so friendly! But he was no Braveheart. It was just a city, after all—not much romance in that.

  I took the taxi to the bed-and-breakfast I had booked for the night. The lady was friendly enough, and showed me to a tiny bedroom. The door closed behind me and I sat down on the bed, again feeling very, very lonely. I was glad it was late in the day. Though I’d dozed on the train, I was exhausted from the trip and hoped a night’s sleep would lift my spirits. It was a long way to come just to be depressed. I could be lonely well enough at home.

  I went out for a walk, found a small grocery store, bought some cheese and oatcakes to eat in my room, then went back and, after my simple supper, got out my book and went to bed.

  Why had I come here… to Scotland instead of someplace else?

  I don’t know, really. I had no idea where to go in either Wales or Ireland. The big Irish cities frightened me when I thought about traveling alone. I suppose it’s better now that terrorism isn’t as bad. But the idea of navigating Dublin and Belfast still made me nervous. I knew nothing about the outlying countryside of Ireland. And besides, Lillian Beckwith’s books were set in Scotland, not Ireland. So gradually Scotland became the focus of my thoughts. Actually, I felt a little like Lillian Beckwith, though she had more spunk than me. I wasn’t really the spunky type.

  I had looked over maps of Scotland. I wasn’t especially drawn to the big cities, though the guidebooks said Edinburgh was one of the most spectacular cities in Europe. As I perused my maps, the name Inverness had a romantic sound to it. It looked like a good place from which to see the Highlands and the north of Scotland. So that’s where I decided to go first. That’s why I was here. No reason. Just a town picked from a map.

  Everything I read about Scotland was full of history—kilts and tartans and swords, peat fires and stone cottages, battles and bagpipes, clans and castles and heather. It was exciting… alluring, I suppose, though I knew next to nothing about Scottish history. Yet gradually I became familiar with the high points and famous names—St. Columba, the ancient Picts, Robert the Bruce, Bannockburn, Mary Queen of Scots, the Jacobites, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Culloden, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott. And, of course, Mel Gibson or the warrior he played.

  Honestly there were so many names and battles and high points that I couldn’t keep them straight. I had no idea how they fit together. But slowly I found the history sort of getting into me in the same way the music did. The Scots were so proud of their past. I saw it everywhere almost immediately, in the gift shops and in the folk music I heard playing.

  Just walking about on the platforms of the Edinburgh train station I had overheard from somewhere a haunting melody about the MacDonald clan of Glencoe—Cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe, and covers the house o’ Donald. I couldn’t get it out of my head for hours, though I didn’t even know who the MacDonalds of Glencoe were. I thought I had known Scottish music from my harp playing, but soon realized how little of it I was aware of, and how oblivious I was to the link between Scotland’s music and its history.

  Having arrived in Scotland, I had no distinct plans. I’d brought books to read, maps and tour books, and my Celtic harp. I had reserved a rental car I would pick up on the day after my arrival. I intended to tour about, see the Scottish countryside, stay in B and Bs as I went, and see where it led.

  I might have gone on an organized tour. I might have figured out every detail of my itinerary and made reservations for every night in advance, leaving nothing to chance. I wasn’t really a random, spontaneous person. I usually played it safe, kept unknowns and contingencies to a minimum. It was out of character for me to strike out not knowing what I would do next, not knowing where I would stay from one night to another, not even knowing which direction I would point the car once I was behind the wheel.

  I had “planned” it this way on purpose. I wanted to challenge myself. If this trip was going to accomplish anything, if I was going to discover new places of strength within myself, then I couldn’t do everything the easy way. I wanted to force myself to wing it, so to speak. I needed to see if I had the courage to do things I had never done before.

  Could I make decisions, fend for myself, strike up conversations, get myself out of awkward situations?

  Was I even capable of having an adventure?

  The whole prospect was intimidating, even frightening. I would either succeed or fail. But I had to try. If I didn’t grow from this experience, what would I gain?

  The morning following my arrival, after breakfast I walked the half mile or so to the center of Inverness and spent an hour just meandering about, listening to people, wandering into shops, absorbing a thousand new sensations. It was like any modern bustling city, I suppose, yet because it was Scotland, I found it exciting and wonderful. I was thrilled when a kilted man walked by. I walked slowly through the Victorian Market, then down and across the bridge over the river Ness and back. Finally I found a taxi, went back to the B and B to get my things, and from there went to the airport and made arrangements to pick up my rental car. I had reserved it for three weeks, just long enough to return to Inverness and take the train back to London for my return flight home.

  As soon as I had my luggage and harp loaded in the rental car, I sat down behind the steering wheel. I took a deep breath, completely disoriented by sitting on the right side of the car, and said to myself, Well, here you are! It’s time for this adventure to begin in earnest.

  Driving on the left side of the road was one of the main challenges I had decided to confront. I could have traveled by bus and train. But I didn’t want to play it safe. I was terrified of driving on the left. Everything felt backward! But I was determined. When it was over I wanted to know I had conquered some hard things.

  I started the car and timidly inched through the parking area and then crept out of the airport at about two miles an hour. The airport was east of town. I thought I would first drive south along Loch Ness and down Scotland’s west coast. It seemed more rugged and interesting. But to get to Loch Ness I had to go through Inverness, which I didn’t want to do immediately. As I came out of the airport, instead I turned west and drove for a while to get accustomed to everything. It didn’t take long before I began to feel comfortable enough. The roads were narrow and peop
le were going way too fast. I constantly had a line of cars behind me anxiously trying to pass. Goodness, they drove fast for such narrow roads!

  But after the terrifying thrill of several confusing roundabouts, and with constant traffic whizzing by, and a brief detour onto a side road, I pulled over for another look at my map to make sure I knew which road to follow. I reversed course back in the direction of Inverness, and then headed south toward Loch Ness and Scotland’s west coast.

  Chapter Four

  The Tourist

  Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,

  Onward, the sailors cry.

  Carry the lad that’s born to be king,

  Over the sea to Skye.

  —“Skye Boat Song”

  I hadn’t intended to write a travelogue and it’s already starting to sound like one. But when a person is breaking out of a rut the way I was trying to do, everything is interesting because it is new.

  I drove south beside the shores of Loch Ness and stopped at several touristy places where busloads of people were buying souvenirs and snacks and taking pictures. I hadn’t realized Scotland was such a place for tourists. There were tour buses everywhere. But furry green little stuffed Nessie dolls weren’t the reason I had come, and I moved on.

  The little town of Fort Augustus at the head of the loch was fun. I stood and watched, fascinated, as a large boat went through the succession of locks from the higher level of the Caledonian Canal and down, finally drifting leisurely away into Loch Ness.

  I stopped at a woolen and tartan store, with tea room, for lunch. I thought it more interesting than the Loch Ness tourist shops. Here I got another taste of what I was talking about before—the tartans and bagpipes and music and history. I wandered about in the shop for an hour, listening to the music, recognizing some tunes but mostly finding myself caught up in new feelings and sensations that were wonderfully haunting and melancholy, nostalgic for a past that was not completely gone. Robert the Bruce and Bonnie Prince Charlie seemed to be the heroic figures most prominently emblazoned in legend, with Robert Burns and sad Mary Queen of Scots following close behind. I determined to learn more about them.