Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  Fortunately, as I grew older I learned to control my occasional outrage rather than make a scene and do something stupid I would later regret. But there was one incident that occurred when I was a senior in high school that I’ve never forgotten and that cost me a friendship. Two of my good friends, Betsy and Clarissa, planned to go to the senior prom together and have just as much fun even though they had no dates. I didn’t have a date either, but I didn’t expect to and had no interest in going to the prom. Then suddenly, two days before the prom, Clarissa was invited out by one of the school’s most popular guys, a football player no less, whose own girlfriend was out of town. Clarissa accepted. Betsy was terribly hurt and left out in the cold and didn’t go to the prom at all. Maybe in retrospect I overreacted—who can blame a girl for accepting such a high-level date? But it was one of those times when that weird sense of justice rose up inside me and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I angrily told Clarissa I thought what she had done was horrible. I didn’t speak to her for the rest of the year. When she gave me her class picture, I tore it up right in front of her face.

  Okay, it wasn’t very nice of me. Was Clarissa’s treatment of Betsy any worse than my anger and unforgiveness toward her? Obviously not. As I look back, I regret how I handled it. But it was one more example of that uncontrollable urge welling up inside me, compelling me to lay aside my normally reticent nature and charge forward on a white steed of truth toward some windmill of injustice that was actually none of my business.

  Was it a character strength… or a character flaw?

  I suppose even all these years later, I’m still not altogether sure. It’s one of those double-edged swords of human nature, with a side that can be used for good, and an opposite side that can do far more damage than good. It all depends on how wisely we use such impulses.

  After the incident with Betsy and Clarissa, my father, by then an attorney with a reputation for windmill-causes of his own, said to me: “Don’t charge off condemning someone, or defending someone, unless you know the whole story. You may find yourself defending someone you wish you hadn’t and who isn’t as innocent as you first thought, or condemning another who isn’t as guilty of wrong as you assumed. Drawing conclusions too soon, and without full information, will only result in your getting egg on your face. Nothing in human relationships is as clear as it seems.”

  “But I do believe Clarissa was wrong, Dad,” I said.

  “Fine. Then maybe you did the right thing, though it sounds to me like you overreacted just a tad. My only point is to look at both sides of anything. Then if you’re sure, do what you have to do… or in the words of good old Davy Crockett—be sure you’re right, then go ahead.”

  I probably rolled my eyes and mumbled something about how he never understood me. Davy Crockett… good grief!

  I’m not quite sure how this personality quirk fits with the gradual loss of my faith. If I was so intent on truth, how did I allow myself to fall out of belief? I think that is the point—I wasn’t that intent on truth so much as that periodically I would become very angry against some perceived injustice. That is a common thing in the world—people will fight tooth and nail against something, or give their lives to a cause without ever considering larger questions of universal truth. It is obviously foolish to try to set the world right by waging war on the evils around us, if at the same time we neglect the only part of the world that we are really capable of influencing and where our real business ought to lie—our own character, belief, and conduct.

  The loss of my husband revealed how far I had already drifted. My faith wasn’t personal. I needed faith then more than ever, but nothing was there. Rather than turning to God for comfort and consolation, I found myself throwing out to an empty universe all the bitter whys that are voiced at such times of loss and pain: Why me… why him… why now… why, God, why, why, why?

  But no answers came. Heaven was silent.

  I began to wonder if it was silent because it was empty.

  I found no consolation at church. I couldn’t bring myself to keep going. I knew my church acquaintances—it suddenly became difficult to think of them as friends—felt doubly sorry for me now because not only had I lost my husband, but with his being a nonbeliever, his fate was now the proverbial fate worse than death.

  But no one wanted to actually talk about that. The big H!

  What comfort could they possibly offer me, what hope? I knew they were avoiding me.

  Once the funeral was over, no one reached out. None of them called. None came to visit. They all sent cards, of course—cards that spoke of hope and God’s love and mercy, with appropriate bland passages of Scripture.

  It was a little game played by Christians at the death of non-Christians, tossing around soothing words of supposed comfort, when down inside they were really thinking, If only he had accepted the Lord before it was too late. But now there is no hope. The poor sinner is in hell being tormented forever.

  I don’t know any other time when Christian hypocrisy is quite so blatant and visible as at death.

  I never went to church again. I hadn’t planned it that way. I just couldn’t pretend that I believed in God’s goodness when I saw no goodness in what had happened. I certainly found no “goodness” in the pat answers I knew I would get if I went back to church.

  If so much as one person had called and expressed compassion, had invited me back, and been glad to see me, I probably would have resumed a life in the church. I was lonely. A genuinely compassionate friend would have meant so much. Whether that would have been enough to rescue a fading faith, who’s to say?

  It doesn’t matter anyway. That one call never came.

  The drift away from what I had once believed was gradual, but eventually complete. I didn’t even have to cut the lines. They had just frayed over the years until my connections with the Christian faith were severed without my doing anything about it.

  When I actually stopped believing, I don’t know. There was no moment. There was no decision to reject the Christian faith. I simply woke up to the gradual realization that my belief had died long before.

  Chapter Ten

  Small Parish Cathedral

  Oh, I’ll tak’ my plaidie contented tae be,

  A wee bittie kilted abune my knee,

  An’ I’ll gie my pipes anither blaw,

  An’ I’ll gang oot ower the hills tae Gallowa’.

  —“The Gallowa’ Hills”

  The curate’s question was still ringing in my head:

  “If it is not too presumptuous of me… might I ask your name?”

  I shook myself back to the present. For an instant the license plate I had seen earlier flashed through my brain, and why I had reacted when I saw it.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I spaced out for a minute. No, of course not—it’s Marie… Marie Buchan,” I said, for some reason giving my maiden rather than my married name.

  “Well, Marie Buchan,” said Iain Barclay, “I am happy to officially know you at last!”

  He reached out his hand almost like a formal diplomatic gesture and we shook hands.

  “Buchan, that is an interesting name,” he said. “Do you know its history?”

  “Not much.”

  “It’s Scottish.”

  “I knew there was a Scottish connection of some kind. I saw the name listed and Buchan tartans and everything in some of the shops. But I know nothing about it in relation to my family.” I didn’t mention the mysterious BMW that had passed along the street my first day in the village.

  “It is as Scottish as MacDonald or MacGregor or Barclay.”

  “Really—that’s great! Maybe I am connected to Scotland more than I realized.”

  “There’s more. The name is associated with this very region of Scotland along the Moray Firth. This area used to be called Buchan.”

  “No kidding! That’s really nice, since this area seemed to draw me.”

  “Half of Scotland, they say, immigrated to Canada in the n
ineteenth century,” Barclay went on. “Your father is Canadian, I take it?”

  “Actually, no,” I replied. “My mother was. My father is from the States.”

  “Well, no matter. Many Scots relocated to the U.S. as well. But whenever it happened, I would give high odds that some ancestor of yours was from this area at one time.—I’m sorry, I really have to run… literally.”

  At last Scottish curate Iain Barclay left me and hurried down the path toward Port Scarnose. I was left with many new things to think about.

  I did telephone him the next day and made arrangements for that same afternoon. Even as we walked from the parking lot toward the small building with its single steeple rising into the air, I felt a sense of quiet descending over me. The ancient stone church was surrounded by grave markers, so old and dilapidated and broken that you couldn’t even read the inscriptions on most of them. Many looked well over a century old. The setting of the church, too, was unusual—out in the country a half mile, or so it seemed, from any other building.

  Curate Iain Barclay led me inside. I knew instantly that he was right. It was wonderful—so old and tranquil and majestic. The architecture was the same as all the architecture of the region—sandstone and granite. But with its pillars and stained-glass windows, and its tremendous age, it was indeed like being inside a tiny country cathedral. Mr. Barclay showed me around, then said I could set up my harp anywhere and play for as long as I liked.

  “I’ll go outside and do some work around the garden and grounds,” he said. “That won’t bother you, will it?”

  “I really don’t mind if you listen,” I said. “Music is for everyone, isn’t it? Come and go as you please. It’s just… well, as I told you, it will be a little strange for me to play here. I haven’t been inside a church in years.”

  He disappeared and I saw nothing more of him. I walked around for a few minutes soaking up the atmosphere. It felt so different from any church I had been in in America or Canada. So stately. The walls were lined with plaques and engravings and monuments, large and small, to the lairds and dukes and earls of the past—Ogilvies and Grants and Sinclairs and Buchans of the region. Many of them, I presumed, were buried behind their monuments. The pews were of dark wood, old, straight, and looked uncomfortable. A balcony ran around two sides, which the curate had said was the fishermen’s loft. Along an opposite wall was perched an ornately carved private miniature balcony, or box, with a single pew that looked as if it might hold six to eight people. I asked about it later. The minister said it was the duke’s private box but that no one had been in it for years, not since the old duke’s death.

  Finally I was ready to play. I found a place near the center of the church where it seemed the acoustics would be best, and got out my harp. The moment I began I was transported into another world. It was peaceful, almost regal, as the curate had promised.

  And the acoustics! I scarcely had to touch the strings and they exploded with sound.

  My anxiety about playing in a church vanished in an instant. I played for more than an hour. I had such a good time. I think I enjoyed it almost as much as playing out by the sea.

  When I was through I went in search of Mr. Barclay. I found himdown on his knees outside, planting some flowers in a borderalongside one of the church walls. He glanced up as I approached.

  “You win!” I said. “It was lovely.”

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it. I couldn’t help hearing you all the way out here. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard such sounds coming from within the church.”

  “I had decided I would make a deal with you—to play if you would tell me where the girl called Gwendolyn lives.”

  He climbed back to his feet, looking at me in surprise.

  “You know little Gwendolyn, do you?”

  “Only briefly,” I answered. “She and her mother were out walking when I was playing my harp. At the bench, you know, where I saw you.”

  “That woman is her aunt. Gwendolyn’s mother is dead.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. What about her father?”

  He did not answer. An odd look flitted momentarily across his face, a look of pain, I thought. Quickly it passed.

  “You said you had been going to make that deal with me,” he said. “Did you change your mind?”

  “In a way, I suppose. I didn’t think it would be fair to place conditions on it. I will play for your service if you still want me to.”

  “Wonderful! This Sunday—that is only three days from now. Will that give you time to prepare?”

  “It will have to be this Sunday. I will be gone in another week.”

  “Oh, yes, of course… I had nearly forgotten. Then this Sunday it is. And I will see if I might help you with your request,” he added after a brief pause. “Gwendolyn and her aunt are in my parish, of course, but it would be awkward were I to be involved directly. I presume you go out walking in the village… let me suggest that you take your way along Fordyce Street. There are really many lovely homes there. I am confident you would enjoy it.”

  “Thank you, I will do that,” I said. “I have just one more question—what kind of music would you like me to play… hymns, Scottish music, contemporary, traditional?”

  “Whatever you like—mix it up,” replied the curate enthusiastically. “I will have you play, if you don’t mind, as people are coming in, then during the offering, as well as one special piece. Do you know many hymns, not being…”

  “A church person?” I laughed. “Yes, I know a good many hymns.”

  “Ah, I see.—I have the feeling there is more to your history than you have let on.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then I shall look forward to hearing about it should you ever feel so inclined.”

  “I will keep that in mind!”

  As we left the church fifteen or twenty minutes later and walked back to Iain Barclay’s car, behind a high stone wall I noticed what seemed to be a huge and ornate building. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, and now realized that the church wasn’t altogether isolated. All I could see was portions of the top of whatever it was through the trees, and what looked like spires and turrets.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing toward it.

  “That’s the castle.”

  “What castle?”

  “Castle Buchan,” replied the curate. “It’s where the duke lives.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Village Gossip

  Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonnie wee dearie;

  Sleep! Come and close the een, heavy and wearie;

  Closed are the wearie een, rest are ye takin’ –

  Soun’ be yer sleepin’, and bright be yer wakin’.

  —“Hush Ye, My Bairnie”

  Three days later I again found myself in the old twelfth-century church of Deskmill Parish, doing the last thing I had anticipated when I made plans to visit Scotland—playing my harp for a Presbyterian Church of Scotland worship service.

  I must say, however, that I enjoyed it. I hadn’t played some of my favorite old hymns for years before dusting them off in preparation a few days before. And for reasons I can’t quite explain, it felt good to play them again. The people were warm and gracious and appreciative. After the service eight or ten women clustered around and introduced themselves and welcomed me to Deskmill and Port Scarnose.

  I felt more a part of the community than ever.

  I think it was sometime that afternoon when the realization hit me—suddenly the days were winding down. My return flight to Toronto was approaching fast.

  Yet I didn’t want to leave!

  It was a gorgeous day and I went out walking. I passed several people who stopped and said they had seen me at church and how nice the music was.

  I walked along Fordyce Street from one end to the other, keeping a look out for Gwendolyn or her aunt. But I saw neither of them. Late that afternoon Iain Barclay came by the bed-and-breakfast for a brief visit to thank me for playing that morning.

 
“You were really a hit,” he said. “People have been telling me all day how much they enjoyed it.”

  “They’ve been telling me, too!” I laughed. “I’m glad they liked it. I did, too.”

  He turned to go, then paused.

  “Would you be interested in having tea with me tomorrow evening?” he asked. “Nothing fancy, just a light supper at my house.”

  “Uh, sure—yes, I’d like that,” I answered.

  “I’ll come by for you. Say, around five.”

  “I’ll be here!”

  He left and I felt… well, happy. I don’t know why. Goodness—of all the weird things in the world—I had a date with a minister!

  I went out again after supper. It was a warm evening. At that time of the year in northern Scotland it didn’t get dark until after eleven. The gloamin’ it’s called. There’s really nothing like it on a warm night.

  I walked back and forth along the headlands, first toward Crannoch, then toward Findectifeld. The waves continued flowing back and forth against the rocky shore more gently than at other times, almost as if responsive to my quiet mood. Gulls were flying about. Did they ever sleep?

  As the evening advanced the sounds from the village gradually quieted and I felt alone. The air was still and fragrant, the long, slow pink of the sunset painting half the sky in gradually fading colors of the rainbow.

  The events of the day, especially the church service, went round and round through my mind. I felt strangely at peace. I don’t know why. I couldn’t believe it had anything to do with the service. Yet as I sat that morning listening to Mr. Barclay preach, and joining in the singing of the hymns that were nothing like most of the music I had heard in any church back home, something had stirred within me.

  Was it a spark of the faith I had once had coming back to life? It was something new, something different from what I had known in church before.

  I made my way back toward Mrs. Gauld’s about ten-thirty. The whole village now seemed asleep. I wasn’t afraid in the least to be out late and alone, as I would have been to walk the streets of downtown Calgary at that hour. It was different here. I was walking slowly, in no hurry. It was eerie in a way, so late and so quiet, and with the dying pinks and oranges of sunset still suspended out over the horizon.