Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  “Weel, a nicht came an’ I was oot late wi’ somethin’, I hae forgotten what. My Maggie was in her bed. I heard sounds comin’, an’ whisperin’ an’ footsteps in the wood, an’ I suspected the nickums wi’ their mischief. They mostly didna bother us, we were so far up the hill an’ most were mair than half feart o’ me. But they must hae got their courage up because here they came. But I heard them an’ I crept roun’ wide up the slope o’ the Bin an’ by the time they had sneekit o’er the two stane dikes an’ had begun tae strip oor three apple trees an’ were throwin’ the apples at my sheep an’ their wee lambies, I had got roun’ nearly ahint them. The poor sheep were fleggit oot o’ their wits an’ runnin’ an’ bleetin’ in a’ directions.

  “So I came oot o’ the woods an’ walked toward the nickums wi’oot a word. Some o’ them saw me an’ the sight must hae been fearsom an’ they turned an’ fled o’er the dry stane dike, not quite so brave meetin’ the auld man they’d heard aboot a’ their lives noo that they saw me face-tae-face. They were shoutin’ an’ runnin’ awa’ in terror like they were in mortal danger.”

  Ranald chuckled at the memory.

  “As gien I would hae hurt a hair on any o’ their heids—the foolish yoong scamps! But there was ane fa was farther up toward the hoose, chasin’ after the sheep wi’ his handful o’ apples. I took him for the leader. He was a mite taller than the rest, an’ fan they a’ began runnin’ awa, he didna ken I was there. I walked up ahint him, an’ jist as he was aboot tae throw the last apple in his hand, I reached oot an’ laid my hand on his arm an’ stopped him. He spun aroun’ an’ fan he saw my face so close, instead o’ anger I saw fear in his eyes. Imagine it—he was feart o’ me, wha wadna hurt a dog, still mair ane o’ God’s wee sons. My hert smote me wi’ pain, an’ a’ I can say is that I loved him as gien he were my ain son.

  “An’ as I luiked intil his een, I kennt that the moment had come fan the mischief o’ childhood was aboot tae gie way tae somethin’ mair evil—the sin o’ manhood. I saw him standin’ atween twa roads, an’ saw that the next step he took wud set him on the way he might gang a’ the way till he was a man. Fit I saw in his een was that here was a lad that God loved wi’ a’ the love o’ a Father, but that the puir lad didna ken’t. An’ wi’ the sheep runnin’ awa’ ahint him, he looked jist like ane o’ them—a poor lost sheep o’ a boy fa needed a shepherd. An’ my eyes luiked intil his, an’ his luiked intil mine, an’ he said nae a word.

  “‘Ah, laddie,’ I said after a bit, “why div ye want tae be fearin’ the wee lambies like that? They’ve no dun ye no hairm, hae they? Luik at them—they’re so fleggit they dinna ken what tae de. Ye wadna want me doin’ sich like tae yersel’, would ye noo?’

  “‘No, sir,’ he answered.

  “‘They’re God’s wee anes, laddie. They hae a special place in his hert, jist like ye do yersel’. We’re God’s wee lambies, jist like those there are mine. Div ye ken fit I’m sayin’, laddie?’

  “‘I think so, sir.’

  “‘Then gang hame wi’ ye. An’ next time, stop an’ gie a wee thoucht tae mind fit ye’re doin’ feels tae the one ye’re doin’ it til. Noo, off wi ye, laddie,’ I said, an’ I gae him a smile.

  “He ran off doon the hill after his frien’s. But the biggest surprise o’ all was when the bell o’ the cottage rang one evenin’ twa week later in the gloamin’. An’ there stood the same lad, wi’ his red shock o’ hair. An’ fan he saw me, in his een was a different luik than afore. An’ I kennt some change had come upo’ him, that he had begun tae think aboot fit life should be. I saw that his conscience had been speakin’ till him, an’ most important o’ all, that he had been listenin’ till it.

  “‘I’m sorry I frightened yer sheep, mister,’ he said. ‘I winna do it again.’

  “‘Thank ye, laddie,’ I said. ‘I’m aye glad tae hear it. Will ye no come in for a drap o’ tea an’ fresh scones?’ An’ in he came.”

  “And that, I take it, was Iain?” I said.

  “That was aye the lad Iain Barclay. An’ fae that day on, we were the best o’ frien’s. He listened tae the speakin’ o’ his conscience, an’ he listened tae the truth fan he heard it, an’ he took the path o’ right rather than the path o’ wrong.”

  It was quiet as I reflected on the story of Iain’s youth.

  “Why did he think ye needed tae hear aboot when he was a lad, Marie, lass?” asked Ranald after a moment.

  “I don’t know exactly,” I answered slowly. “I don’t know if he thought I needed to hear it. I asked what had happened to turn him around. He said I should ask you. I think because of the changes I have been going through myself. I suppose everyone encounters a time in their life when they have to make some decisions about who they want to be. That was such a time in Iain’s life.”

  I paused and smiled thoughtfully. “Maybe now is mine,” I added.

  He let my words settle a moment.

  “What kin’ o’ decisions, lass?” he asked after a few seconds.

  “About life, and God—you know… what everything means, what life is supposed to be about.”

  “Are ye strugglin’ yersel’ wi’ what it’s a’ aboot?”

  “I don’t know if I am struggling exactly,” I replied. “But the moment I met Iain, everything began to change.”

  “Change… hoo?”

  “In my outlook about life, I suppose I would say.”

  This time Ranald simply waited.

  “I told Iain that first day I met him,” I went on, “that I wasn’t a church person. He laughed at my description. And even as I told him how I had drifted away from my beliefs, he took it so in stride. He wasn’t bothered in any way by it. Gradually we began talking about spiritual things, I guess you would say. I began to think about what I believed. I realized I had never really thought about spirituality in much depth before. And, well, here I am.”

  “Still thinkin’, are ye?”

  “I think so.”

  “An’ prayin’ as ye do, askin’ God tae gie ye light?”

  “I’m trying, though it is new.”

  “Then ye’ll fin’ the truth ye’re luikin’ for.”

  “That’s just what Iain told me. But he says you and he don’t always see eye to eye.”

  Ranald smiled fondly. “Only on wee matters o’ theology that winna coont for muckle in the end. On the ae thing that will remain fan a’ the wood, hay, an’ stubble’s burned awa’ in the great furnace o’ God’s reckonin’, on that ae thing—oor twa herts is joined as ane. ’Tis why we dinna worry muckle aboot the rest. I call them the wee things—though they’ve split kirks an’ caused murders an’ hangin’s an’ burnin’s, in the end they’ll add up tae nae mair than a puff o’ passin’ wind. ’Tis the wood, hay, an’ stubble o’ doctrine, an’ I winna contest wi’ my brithers an’ sisters ower the likes o’ ony o’ it. But I would lay doon my verra life for the ae thing.”

  “And what is that one thing?” I asked.

  “In answer tae yer question, lass,” he said, “I’ll play ye a sma’ tune. ’Tis but a wee simple tune, but it’s got a’ the answers tae a’ the questions o’ life. ’Tis the melody yoong Iain heard fan I spoke till him fan he was a lad. ’Tis the melody we a’ got tae heed by an’ by. ’Tis the sang that tells o’ the ane thing.”

  Without another word, Ranald rose, walked across the room, returned with his violin, tightened his bow, and began to play. As I listened I recognized the tune, but could not remember from where.

  It wasn’t Scottish, but from somewhere further back in my memory.

  It was a far-off strain that seized my heart and sent undefined chills of longing through me. I felt the strangely familiar melody probing and penetrating the deepest corners of my being. But why?

  Where was the song from?

  Why did it touch me so?

  After several minutes, Ranald’s violin went silent. The tune had evoked such deep feelings within me, from some deep memory that I could not lay hold of with my conscious m
ind. Unaccountably I found that I was crying.

  “I know that song,” I said softly. “But I cannot remember its words or what it is called.”

  “All men ken it, lassie,” said Ranald. “Some remember it fae whan they were bairns. Some come tae ken it later, like Iain. But a’ o’ us ken its meanin’ in oor herts. ’Tis the sang that answers ilka question—gien we’re willin’ tae listen.”

  “But why is it so familiar?”

  Ranald smiled. “Ye’ll ken it when I tell ye, lassie,” he said. “It gangs, ‘Tell me the auld, auld story… ’ ”

  The instant I heard him speak the words, my heart stung me.

  “Tell me the auld, auld story o’ unseen things above,” Ranald continued, “o’ Jesus an’ his glory, o’ Jesus an’ his love. Tell me the story simply, as tae a little chil’, for I am weak an’ weary, an’ helpless an’ defiled…”

  I knew every word from years long gone by.

  Now Ranald began to croon softly, his voice eerily resembling the sound of his own fiddle.

  “Tell me the auld, auld story, tell me the auld, auld story, tell me the auld, auld story o’ Jesus an’ his love.”

  I was crying in earnest now. Ranald continued to sing in a voice that seemed as ancient as the old story itself.

  “Tell me the story slowly, that I may take it in,—that wonderful redemption, God’s remedy for sin. Tell me the story often, for I forget so soon, the early dew o’ mornin’ has passed away at noon.

  “Tell me the auld, auld story, tell me the auld, auld story, tell me the auld, auld story… o’ Jesus an’ his love.”

  I heard Ranald get up and leave the cottage. I sat for several more minutes. Finally I wiped my eyes and followed him outside. Ranald was nowhere to be seen. He was not one to add words if they were not necessary.

  He knew the old song, and the story it told, had gotten inside me. He would let it do its work.

  In spite of what he had said about driving me down to town, I turned into the meadow that led to the path by which I had come.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Banff Springs Hotel

  How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,

  Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow:

  There oft, as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea,

  The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

  —“Flow Gently, Sweet Afton”

  As I walked back down the hill, I made a decision.

  After what the duke had told me earlier about the harp music waking something inside him, and Ranald Bain’s simple old story of Jesus and his love, and with Gwendolyn’s words about no longer being afraid still in my thoughts, I realized that it was time I played in church again. If the music could do what it was doing inside Duke Alasdair Reidhaven, and inside the heart of his daughter, as I was now certain was the case, perhaps there might be others it would affect the same way.

  Most important, maybe I needed to do it for me.

  Things had changed since the first time I had played at Iain’s church. I was thinking about God and the church and what they meant in new ways.

  I was ready to play again.

  I wanted to play again. I was ready to go to church openly and say to Iain, to God, and to myself, “I am here for whatever there is for me to receive. I am ready to discover what Jesus’ love means for me, here and now. And if I can receive, perhaps I can give something to others as well.”

  I walked straight to Iain’s. I was so disappointed to find him not at home. I had made my decision. I didn’t want to chicken out and change my mind.

  I hurried back to the cottage and drove to the church, hoping to find him there. But he wasn’t there either. So I wrote him a note saying that if he still wanted me to play again for church, this Sunday or whenever he wanted me, I would like to. I put it through the letter slot of his door and then returned home.

  I didn’t hear from Iain all that day. I didn’t see him again, in fact, until he came to pick me up for dinner the next evening.

  He was so excited as we drove out of town toward Banff.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t home yesterday when you came,” he said. “I had a funeral to do in Inverness and stayed over for the night—dear friends of my parents from years ago. The husband, who just lost his wife, is eighty-six and asked me to stay. I only got back into town three hours ago. I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you want to play for services!”

  “If you will have me,” I said.

  “Are you kidding? I’m delighted. Many people have asked when you would be back. I haven’t mentioned it to you because I didn’t want to put pressure on you. I sensed that you were going through struggles of your own that you needed to resolve.”

  “Very perceptive.”

  “And have you resolved them?”

  “Not entirely. But like you once told me, life’s journeys are not always straight. Still, I feel like I am moving forward—and am on some new paths.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “The Banff Springs Hotel. It’s about fifteen miles. Banff used to be the county seat of Banffshire. Then they reorganized all thecounties and regions in Scotland, and we are now in Moray. Banff is one of Scotland’s oldest towns, in the heart of Buchan country.”

  “They must have named Canada’s Banff after it.”

  “I’m sure they did. Many Scots from here immigrated to Canada. The hotel sits high up on the edge of town with a wonderful view of the sea, and serves great food besides.”

  We arrived. During dinner we talked about many things. I told Iain about my drive through the hills again, and this time about my stop. This led to my telling him about my most recent visit with Ranald Bain.

  Iain listened quietly and smiled every once in a while as Ispoke. I was so at ease. I think it was on this evening that I realized, whatever else he was, that he had truly become a friend.

  “Ranald speaks very highly of you,” I said. “I asked about when you were young.”

  “Did he tell you the story?”

  “He did. He told me several old stories,” I added, smiling. “One he told with his violin—a very old story. It made me cry.”

  “What story was that?” Iain asked.

  “One that you know well,” I said. “One that I am beginning to learn for myself.”

  Iain looked at me with a puzzled expression. I laughed lightly. “It’s the same story you tell every Sunday in church,” I said, “the story he told you when you were fifteen.”

  “Ah, right. And he told it to you, with his violin?”

  I nodded. “But it was enough. I told you—it made me cry.”

  The next day I drove to the castle. I had written a note for the duke. I don’t know if you would want to know, I said in it, but Ithought I would tell you that I will be playing my harp at the Deskmill Parish Church for the service this Sunday morning at ten-thirty.

  For some reason, after having such an enjoyable dinner with Iain the previous evening, I was shy about seeing Alasdair. I gave the envelope to Miss Forbes, asked her to give it to him, and left. I had nothing to hide, from him or anyone. Indeed, you couldn’t hide much around here! But I knew I would feel funny seeing him right then.

  I hurried back to my car, half expecting to hear him calling my name behind me as he had last time. But no voices stopped me and I drove away with no more words with anyone.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Doorway to Oneness

  Oh the roses in their bloom

  Shed a brightness through the gloom

  Which envelops all this weary field of strife,

  Brother wipe away your tears,

  And forget your little fears,

  Looking thankfully to Him who gives us life.

  —“Where the Roses Blush and Bloom”

  Sunday came. Iain asked me if I wanted a ride to church. I said I would drive myself. I arrived about ten o’clock, half an hour early, and got my harp
ready and tuned up. I began playing at ten-fifteen. By then people were coming in pretty steadily, visiting with one another and milling around.

  About ten twenty-five the church was mostly full and nearly everyone was in their seats. There was still a general hubbub of noise and talk and commotion. I saw Mrs. Urquhart take her customary seat, respected elder of the kirk that she was. She never glanced my way or made an attempt to greet me.

  I had my eyes on the music on my stand and was absorbed in what I was doing. I vaguely heard a creaking of wooden stairs butthought nothing of it. Then a sudden hush swept through thechurch. I heard several exclamations and whispered words of astonishment.

  “Look… it’s him…”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “… the duke…”

  I glanced up.

  There was Alasdair!

  He was walking up the old, long-unused steps into his private little balcony that everyone said hadn’t felt feet on them in more years than most people could remember. Every eye in the place was on him.

  I tried to keep playing, but I’m afraid I flubbed a few notes! I was dying to look again, but was afraid to at the same time. I knew I would lose my concentration. If I knew Alasdair, he would probably be looking straight at me.

  I played one more hymn and glanced toward the clock on the wall. Ten-thirty sharp.

  I heard the door open where Iain came out. The church was dead silent except for my playing. Iain walked up the steps to the pulpit and I brought the hymn to an end. Then I rose and took a seat in the first row.

  I didn’t dare look up. Either toward the pulpit or the duke’s box!

  “Good morning!” said Iain exuberantly.

  “Good morning,” the congregation repeated back to him.

  Whether Iain was immediately aware of Alasdair’s presence, I couldn’t tell. Nothing in the sound of his voice gave away his thoughts. But from the direction the pulpit faced, it was possible he hadn’t seen him.

  Iain went through the announcements, thanked me for being with them again. We sang two hymns. Iain prayed. Then I got up for the first of my special numbers. I tried to put the distractions out of my mind while I played “This Is My Father’s World,” which I had wanted to play in church ever since that day I had played it in the churchyard.