Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  As I went, I saw a sign in the window of a small cottage: “Self-Catering, For Rent—By Week or Month.”

  I paused and stared at the sign a few moments, then peered in through the darkened window. It seemed like a nice little place, furnished and cozy. The wheels of my brain got busy.

  The next day Miss Cruickshank came for another lesson. We chatted for a while afterward. Then Mrs. Gauld fixed us tea and the three of us sat down in Mrs. Gauld’s kitchen and visited for another hour.

  I asked them about Gwendolyn. The two women looked at each other with expressions that both seemed to say, “Hoo muckle suld we tell her?”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s jist, she’s no weel, dear,” replied Mrs. Gauld hesitantly.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Is she slow, or sick?”

  “Nae body kens richt. Ever since… weel, syne the beginnin’, she’s…”

  She looked away and didn’t finish.

  “She’s jist nae athegither richt, dear,” added Miss Cruickshank. “Why are ye interested in Gwendolyn?”

  “I’ve seen her twice out walking. She played my harp for a few minutes. I think she has musical gifts.”

  Again the women looked at each other.

  “It might be best, dear,” began Mrs. Gauld, “—that is, as ye’re only here a fyow mair days, nae to see her again.”

  “But why? I want to see her again.”

  “’Tis said she has pooers, dear—pooers best kept away fae.”

  “What kind of powers?”

  “Dark pooers… fae the ither side.”

  Before I could reply, the kitchen door opened and a lady walked in carrying a cloth satchel. Mrs. Gauld glanced toward her.

  “Oh, Tavia,” she said. “I’d maist forgotten ye were comin’.”

  The newcomer greeted Mrs. Gauld and Miss Cruickshank.

  “Tavia, this is Marie Buchan. She has been bidin’ wi’ me for a few days. She is fae Canada.—Miss Buchan, this is Tavia Maccallum, wha helps me wi’ the cleanin’.”

  “Ye maun be the harp lady,” said Mrs. Maccallum… or Miss, I didn’t know which. She was stout and short, with short-cropped blond hair, full of animation and energy and with one of the prettiest smiles imaginable.

  I smiled. “I suppose I am.”

  “Ye can start wi’ the upstairs,” said Mrs. Gauld.

  The lady started up the stairs as we resumed our conversation, though I saw her hesitate as I spoke. She was obviously listening.

  “I am still perplexed about what you were saying about Gwendolyn,” I said. “You can’t be suggesting… surely you’re not saying that she’s demon-possessed or something? Surely people don’t take that kind of thing seriously, not today. She’s just a sweet little girl.”

  Miss Cruickshank clicked her tongue knowingly.

  “Things are different here, dear,” said Mrs. Gauld, speaking to me almost as if she were instructing a child. “This is the land o’ the Celts. The auld ways haena died oot here like they hae in much o’ the rest o’ the warl’. Ye’ve heard o’ the second sicht?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Aye, weel young Gwendolyn has it, ye ken, an’ ’tis a weel-known fact. Wi’ the second sicht comes mair besides. ’Tis not always weel for those standing too close, ye ken. She had a frien’, the wee lassie wha lived next door. The puir lassie was hit by a lorry oot ridin’ her bicycle.”

  “Do they think Gwendolyn had something to do with it?”

  “Oh, nae, naethin’ so dreadful as a’ that. Gwendolyn wasna even wi’ her at the time. ’Tis jist that her aunt said that the nicht before Gwendolyn lay awake half the nicht moanin’ and carryin’ on, wi’ visions o’ a child cryin’ oot, an’ then the next day her wee frien’ was deid.”

  I was getting goose bumps as I listened!

  “Be that as it may,” I said, “I would still like to teach her as much of my harp as I can, though I don’t think she needs to be taught. She has a gift and I would like to see what she might be able to do with it.”

  Gradually the subject changed, and I was glad. I asked about the town and its history. Another thirty minutes flew by.

  When Miss Cruickshank got ready to leave, she asked me how much I charged because she wanted to pay me for the two lessons, since I was leaving in a few days. But I couldn’t take her money. Being here the way I was, meeting people, almost like part of the community in a small way, I felt so much richer than when I had arrived. There was no way I could charge her.

  When I told her I almost thought she would cry. As appreciative as she was, however, every time I saw her after that, there seemed to be a change in her demeanor toward me.

  Somehow I knew it was because of what I had said about Gwendolyn.

  Chapter Twelve

  Growth

  When I’ve done my work of day, and I row my boat away,

  Doon the waters o’ Loch Tay, as the evening light is fading,

  And I look upon Ben Lawers, where the after glory glows,

  And I think on two bright eyes and the melting mouth below.

  She’s my beauteous nighean ruadh, my joy and sorrow too,

  And although she is untrue, well I cannot live without her.

  For my heart’s a boat in tow, and I’d give the world to know

  Why she means to let me go, as I sing ho-ree, ho ro.

  —“Loch Tay Boat Song”

  My “date” with Iain Barclay was as low-key and relaxed as every other time I had seen him. He had the table spread out with meats and cheeses and crackers and scones. As he made tea I couldn’t help thinking how comfortable he seemed in the kitchen. It was a well-appointed kitchen, too. Just the way he moved around in it, opening cupboards and taking things down and setting the teakettle on the stove, it was clear that he spent time there. Whether he was a master chef, I didn’t know, but he appeared to be a man who did his own cooking and enjoyed it.

  The whole house was tidy and attractive and homey. Iain was good-looking, intelligent, educated, engaging, warm—everything a woman could ask for. I couldn’t imagine why there was no Mrs. Barclay. Maybe curates weren’t in demand as husbands in Scotland. I didn’t know. I certainly had no intention of asking.

  When everything was ready we sat down. I was a little surprised that he didn’t pray. I didn’t know what his normal habit was, but he was obviously trying to put me at ease. I wouldn’t have minded. I was used to that sort of thing. It was another one of those little indications that he was… well, just a nice man. He wasn’t so tied to his own traditions that he couldn’t be as comfortable not praying so as not to embarrass someone who wasn’t a Christian.

  There was nothing about him that made any show of his religion. So he just poured out tea for us and began sipping at his cup without formality as I helped myself to oatcakes and a slice of cheese.

  We talked and ate. It was relaxed and easy. Every once in a while I would stop and remind myself that I was sitting having a good time with a minister!

  Iain Barclay was one of those rare individuals who was more interested in learning about others than in talking about himself. I didn’t think of myself as a particularly talkative person. In groups I hadn’t been one of those who monopolized conversations and turned every point on to myself. I tended to be a listener. But with Iain, after a while it began to dawn on me that I was doing most of the talking. He asked probing questions that drew me out. He was interested in me. He made me comfortable in responding and sharing what I was thinking and feeling.

  Before an hour had passed, I had told him more about myself than I had anyone since my husband. It was natural. It felt good to have another person value me. It was not something I had felt much recently—valued, just as a person, as me.

  Although I didn’t tell him about my name.

  The most amazing thing was that he didn’t speak a spiritual word the entire time. Even when I told him about my own past and my struggles with belief and why on the day we had met I’d said I wasn’t
a Christian, he took it all in without a preachy response. He just nodded and replied now and then with a kind comment or another question. I could tell he was feeling with me the frustrations and uncertainties I had been through. He was empathetic, not judgmental. Not a hint, no tone or expression of criticism. Only kindness and understanding.

  It was cathartic and healing, in a way, to tell the story from my husband’s death till the point when I realized I no longer believed, especially to have it received so graciously. I hadn’t told anyone the whole thing before.

  It would be dangerously easy to become attached to such a sensitive and caring man. I told myself that I had better watch my step. Don’t forget, Marie… this guy’s a minister!

  Finally it grew silent. I realized I had said just about everything there was to say. I drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Revealing my past had felt like reliving the past ten or fifteen years all over again.

  “I appreciate your being so open with me,” said Iain after a quiet minute. “I can see that it was difficult for you. It’s not hard to see why you decided to leave your faith.”

  “You don’t think I was wrong?” I said.

  “Right, wrong—who am I to pass judgment without having walked in your shoes?”

  “That’s not how most church people would respond.”

  “Hmm… perhaps,” he said. “But life is a journey, a quest for truth and understanding. We are all on individual journeys. We have to find our own way. What you have told me is part of your journey, and I am sure it is not over. Neither is mine. Hungry, truth-seeking people grow and change and develop. That’s what life is. So no, I do not think you were wrong. You responded to the circumstances that came to you in the way you felt best at the time. I admire your courage in trying to grow through them.”

  “I had not thought of it that way before,” I said.

  “That’s what I was thinking as I listened—that you were trying to grow through your grief. I think that does take courage.”

  “Grow… even in losing my faith?”

  “Growth is individual. Growth has no straight paths. Sometimes there are detours. But I’m sure you will get there in the end.”

  “Get where?” I asked.

  “Where you are going.” He smiled.

  “That seems an unusual response for someone in your profession,” I said.

  “I told you I was unconventional.”

  “Aren’t you worried about me, concerned for my soul?”

  “Not a bit!” he laughed.

  “Most Christians would be.”

  He grew serious again and thought a moment.

  “You’re probably right,” he said, nodding slowly. “I suppose it all comes down to one’s view of God.”

  I was surprised that he stopped and said no more. He was so reluctant to preach at me. Rather than put me on the defensive, he whetted my appetite for more.

  “And?” I said after a bit with a questioning tone. “Surely you’re not going to leave it at that!”

  “All I meant,” he said, “was that if your view of God is as a judge, then I suppose everything tends to revolve around who’s saved and who isn’t, and how God is going to judge you if you aren’t.”

  “And… ?” I said again.

  “I don’t view him that way.”

  Once more he stopped and didn’t appear to be going any further. Again I laughed lightly.

  “And… ?” I repeated a third time.

  He smiled and grew thoughtful.

  “Would you like to hear how I see God?”

  “I would.”

  He drew in a breath and thought for a few seconds.

  “All right,” he said. “I view God in the way that Jesus spoke of him—as a good Father waiting with open arms to receive us back home, and to love us and tell us everything is going to be all right, because he is going to make it all right.”

  “That’s nice,” I replied. “If only that was all there is to it. But even to me, someone on the outside, I have to admit that it sounds simplistic.”

  “Do you really think so?” said Iain in a genuinely thoughtful tone. “I think its simplicity makes it profound. Suddenly all the doctrinal complexities are swallowed up in the simplicity of a Father’s love.”

  “If only that could be true,” I said, almost wistfully.

  “When I hear something like the story you’ve told me,” Iain went on, “I feel a little of the compassion I think God feels toward all of us. It makes me realize how much he loves you. He feels the pain you have been through as only a Father can to see one of his children suffer.”

  “If he feels that,” I said, “why did he take my husband from me?”

  “Oh, Marie!” said Iain, and I could feel the pain in his voice. “God didn’t take him from you.”

  “Who did then?”

  “No one took him from you. Things like that happen. The world is full of pain and heartache. God doesn’t cause it or orchestrate it. He is our refuge from it, but not the cause of it.”

  I heard him say the words, but they hardly penetrated. I had, I suppose, been subconsciously blaming God all this time. I said I didn’t believe in him, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t capable of also blaming him. Mine was the schizophrenic and irrational reaction of accusational unbelief.

  So it would take me some time to get my head around what Iain had just said.

  In his sensitive way, Iain saw that my circuits were overloaded. He said no more in that vein. The conversation gradually drifted in other directions. I told him of my talk with Mrs. Gauld and Adela Cruickshank about Gwendolyn. He shook his head in annoyance when I told him what they had said.

  “The auld wives,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean?” I laughed.

  “A Scottish term for busybodies,” he replied. “All that about Gwendolyn—it’s a load of rubbish. You’re absolutely right, she’s just a sweet girl, a poor, sweet girl.”

  “Why do you say poor?”

  He was quiet a moment. He seemed to be wondering whether he had inadvertently said more than he should have.

  “It’s not widely known,” he said at length, “but she has a rare degenerative illness, some form of lymphoma, I believe.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible!” I said. “Is that why she looks… I mean, is she slow?”

  “No, nothing like that, though people sometimes make that assumption. It is simply the way it affects her. The disease is gradually taking its toll on her brain along with the rest of her body—you may have noticed she walks a little unevenly.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “It is almost like the long-term effects of a degenerative stroke.”

  “Is there nothing that can be done?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not intimately familiar with the details,” he said. “Her aunt doesn’t keep me well-informed because… well, that is another story we need not go into. I do know that early in her life Gwendolyn was taken to the best specialists in London. They were uniform in their prognosis that nothing could be done to reverse the progression of the disease. As far as I am aware, there have been no medical breakthroughs to alter that view.”

  “What is the prognosis, then?” I asked.

  “It is not very pleasant,” replied Iain with a sad smile. “Her body is slowly dying. She had no chance from the day she was born.”

  “That is heartbreaking! I had no idea. What is her life expectancy?”

  “As far as I know, the median is usually about fourteen or fifteen years.”

  I couldn’t prevent a shocked gasp escaping my mouth. My hand went to my lips.

  “But she looks to be, what, almost ten already,” I said, feeling a little faint.

  “Actually, she is eleven, and on the long side of it. She will be twelve in another three months.”

  It was worse than I had imagined.

  “Will it be… I mean, what…”

  I didn’t even know how to finish what I was trying to ask.

  Slowly I
ain shook his head. “No one really knows what to expect,” he said. “Most of what I have heard, as I say, is secondhand rather than through Mrs. Urquhart, Gwendolyn’s aunt. As I understand it, the doctors say the end can come suddenly or gradually, that there can be a slow deterioration or that she might one day simply not wake up.”

  “That is so sad!” I said, slowly shaking my head in disbelief. “Does Gwendolyn know?”

  “I honestly have no idea. Children have deeper instincts than we give them credit for. I’m sure she knows that she is different from other children.”

  “What about the second sight?” I asked.

  “There may be something to that,” replied Iain. “I would prefer simply to call it a keen intuition. What a child like Gwendolyn sees, what she feels about her own future, those are questions we will probably never know the answers to. When a child is faced with mortality—and I think Gwendolyn must sense it, whatever she has been told—I think it opens them to realms we are unaware of. But as for the other nonsense that goes with it, pay no attention to it.”

  “You mean the dark powers and all that.”

  “Yes. That kind of talk infuriates me. She is simply a child dear to God’s heart. But people talk. Most of the children of the village won’t go near her. They are frightened that if they speak to her they may wind up dead like poor Sarah MacLeod, who was hit by the lorry. One thing they told you is true, however. This is still the land of the Celts, and there remains more superstition floating in the air than is healthy. People will latch on to any silly rumor if it has a whiff of superstition or the second sight about it. Then they begin to believe it. But they don’t have the good sense to keep ancient Celtic sorcery where it belongs—in legend.”

  “After what you’ve told me,” I said, “I am more certain than ever that I want to give her the chance to play my harp again.”