Angel Harp: A Novel

by Michael Phillips

  After another minute, suddenly the final remnants of an incoming wave gently surged past me, soaking my legs and feet and sandals and jeans and jolting me out of my reverie.

  I smiled and stood, wiping my eyes with a dry part of my shirt. Then slowly I began to laugh. I felt so good… clean… free… happy.

  I was awake!

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Looking Ahead

  Far frae my hame I wander, but still my thoughts return,

  To my ain folk ower yonder, in the sheiling by the burn.

  I see the cosy ingle, and the mist abune the brae:

  And joy and sadness mingle, as I list some auld-warld lay.

  —“My Ain Folk”

  With the changes taking place inside me, so many things began to fit into a perspective that had been missing before. What could represent a more massive reorientation than turning your whole view of religion and everything else in life upside down, recognizing God as a good and loving Father, and saying to him that you want to be his daughter!

  Of course I was filled with questions. I felt like I was starting life all over again at forty-one!

  Maybe I was. But along with the questions, I was deeply at peace.

  That’s what I felt—simply at peace.

  I knew I had turned a corner. I knew it was a turning point I would look back on as a major one. I was ready to engage with God, ready to discover what being a Christian really meant, ready to live it twenty-four/seven.

  Or at least try to live it! I had a lot of catching up to do.

  Along with the spiritual changes that were blossoming within me like a new birth, there were practical changes, too.

  For one thing I began to wonder how much longer I was supposed to stay in Scotland. I wasn’t overly concerned about the financial aspect of it. But paying what amounted to more than $300 a week for a cottage and another $150 a week for a car, along with food and gas, added up.

  Obviously I couldn’t stay forever.

  I began to wonder if perhaps the reason I had been meant to come here was accomplished. Was my time here gradually coming to a close?

  Had God been leading me without my knowing it, leading me to this place even after I no longer thought I believed in him? Was he now ready to lead me back home?

  The thought of it filled me with sadness. I loved it here!

  I was excited about what lay ahead. There were worlds of new discovery awaiting me. But how could I not be sad that this change in spiritual outlook might bring with it a close to my Scottish adventure?

  The minute I started thinking about leaving, other thoughts began to fill my mind, too.

  How could I separate the change inside me from Iain Barclay? He was such an intrinsic part of it. He was the one God had used to get my attention, to open me to new realities I had never considered before.

  I was changing. And Iain Barclay was at the center of it.

  The Aberdeen look filled my mind’s eye.

  Was I in love with him? It was a question I had not wanted to face. The idea of falling for a minister so weirded me out at first that I couldn’t deal with it.

  The main thing was simply that Iain had become a good friend. I would miss him. That’s what I had to focus on. I couldn’t let myself daydream beyond that.

  Those weren’t my only thoughts. Alasdair was also there in the thick of them… simpler than thoughts of Iain in one way perhaps, but more complex in another.

  A minister… and a duke. Whew, what a turn my life had taken!

  The idea of leaving also filled me with thoughts of Gwendolyn, and Ranald Bain. God had used Iain and Ranald to awaken me to his Fatherhood, but he also seemed to be using me to alleviate both Alasdair’s and Gwendolyn’s loneliness.

  What was to become of Gwendolyn?

  I had already decided to leave Journey with her rather than take it home. I loved that harp. But it had a new purpose—to bring joy to a dying girl’s heart. She was another of the reasons I knew I had come here, or perhaps been sent here. I hoped the music I had introduced into her life would make her last years on this earth happier.

  How special a young innocent like her must be to the Father’s heart!

  I also decided to make a CD of her playing. Gwendolyn had been so at peace when listening to the music she had made. I wanted her to be able to hear it anytime she wanted. I had enough recorded for probably half an hour of music. I wanted to tape more. I might even leave the recorder with Mrs. Urquhart and have her send tapes to me periodically so that I could make two or three CDs.

  Chapter Forty

  Unexpected Blow

  I’m wearin’ awa’, John, like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,

  I’m wearin’ awa’, to the land o’ the leal.

  There’s nae sorrow there, John, there’s neither cauld nor care, John;

  The day is aye fair in the land o’ the leal.

  —“The Land o’ the Leal”*

  I was not the only one who had been affected by Iain’s words from the pulpit, though I didn’t know it at the time. Nor did I realize how much I had been stirring things up. People had been talking about me. As a result, things were about to take a turn.

  I went to see Gwendolyn later that day, after my walk and time with God on the beach. I felt so alive, I did not want to keep it all to myself!

  I was in for a disappointment.

  “Hello, Mrs. Urquhart,” I said, unable to keep the smile from breaking out all over my face when she opened the door. “How is Gwendolyn?”

  “She is better.”

  “Oh, good! Is she out of bed? Would you want me to bring my harp over so she could play?”

  “She is out of bed,” replied Gwendolyn’s aunt, a serious look on her face, “but I do not think that would be a good idea.”

  “Oh, all right,” I said. “Perhaps tomorrow, then.”

  “That is not what I meant,” said Mrs. Urquhart. “I do not think it would be a good idea for you to come back.”

  “I don’t think I understand,” I said.

  “I do not want you here. I do not want you visiting Gwendolyn as long as you are seeing him. Good day, Ms. Buchan.”

  Stunned, I suddenly found myself staring at a door that had been closed, gently enough but in no uncertain terms, in my face.

  I stood for a moment bewildered. I didn’t know what to do. I rang the doorbell again.

  With obvious reluctance, Mrs. Urquhart opened it about a foot. This time the look on her face was unmistakable. There was no hint of a smile. Behind her, across the room, Gwendolyn stood staring at me with wide eyes that were red like her hair. It was obvious she had been crying. I could see fear in her expression, too, that she was afraid to speak to me. My heart ached for her.

  “Mrs. Urquhart, please,” I began. “Surely you can give me some explanation. I mean, have I done something to offend you? If so, I—”

  Gwendolyn’s aunt opened the door a little wider and took a step forward onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

  “I cannot have Gwendolyn’s heart broken again. That man has hurt her enough.”

  “Hurt her?”

  “He is an evil man. I will not have you raise Gwendolyn’s hopes with dreams of harps and music, only for her to be disappointed and heartbroken in the end. Anything good that comes to her life, he will try to destroy it, just as he is now trying to lure you away from her.”

  “It is not like that at all,” I said. “I assume you are talking about the duke, Mr. Reidhaven. He has never so much as suggested—”

  “Nevertheless, I will not have you seeing him and then coming to visit Gwendolyn. I have told her you will not be coming back.”

  I stood listening with my mouth hanging open.

  “But, surely there is some mistake,” I said, shaking my head.

  “There is no mistake,” said Mrs. Urquhart firmly.

  “I could tell there were vibes between the two of you the other day at my house,” I said. “But he has not tried to make me
think ill of Gwendolyn or you or anyone.”

  “He wouldn’t be so obvious as that,” she replied, almost derisively. “His ways are more subtle. Devious and cunning are the wiles of a fraud… don’t believe what you see, it’s a mere facade.”

  She seemed to hesitate a moment, as if surprised herself at what had come out of her mouth. “You do not know what you have become involved in,” she added.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, looking at her a little strangely because of the way she had spoken.

  “Of course not. How could you?”

  “But what is it all about, Mrs. Urquhart?”

  “Mrs. Gauld said she told you. He is Gwendolyn’s father, at least so most folk believe, though there are still those who think there is more to it. He abandoned her. I took her in to save her life. But the curse came with her—his curse. Ever since he has been doing his best to ruin us. He never forgave me for exposing him. Now the whole village knows what he is. I will not let Gwendolyn near him, or near anyone who has to do with him. I care for her too much to see her hurt like he would hurt her if he could. There is more, but that is all you need be told. Be careful, Ms. Buchan. That is all I will say. Be very careful. Do not be fooled.”

  “But if he is her father, does he not have the right to see her?”

  “She is terrified of him. She does not want to see him.”

  “She doesn’t want to see her own father?”

  Mrs. Urquhart shook her head.

  “You don’t really think he would hurt her?” I said incredulously. “He has not struck me as cruel. Beneath the shell, he actually seems like a warm and sensitive man.”

  What I can only describe as a sarcastic snort sounded from Mrs. Urquhart’s mouth. “You don’t know him like I do,” she said. “He puts on his smooth airs for a pretty thing like you. But I am not fooled. No one who really knows him is fooled. His talk is smooth to make you believe, but his real intent is to deceive. Stay away from him, Ms. Buchan, is my advice. Go back where you came from and forget this place.”

  She turned and went back inside. This time she closed the door with even more vigor than before. I was left pondering her strange rhyme, shivering briefly at the sound of it. I knew I could stand on the porch and ring the doorbell all day, but I would not see her face again.

  Stunned, I left and walked slowly back to my cottage.

  After what had happened at the sea and on the little sandy beach along the cove where I had prayed, I didn’t know what to think. This was a blow.

  The rest of the day and evening was the most depressing time for me since I had arrived in Scotland. It hardly seemed like the same day of Iain’s sermon about the prodigal and my walk at the sea. My happy mood from before was shattered.

  *Every language contains certain words and concepts that are unique to it and that do not translate completely into other languages. Leal is such a word in Scots. As used here, the “land of the leal” is obviously a reference to heaven. The word leal contains an abundant richness of meaning that draws all the following into it: loyal, faithful, spiritual, faithful to one's duties, constant in friendship and love, honest, true, honorable, just, fair, chaste, pure, trustworthy.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Eleanor Rigby

  Since my dear one’s gone, all the joy of morning,

  All the peace I’ve known, gone, till her returning;

  My own dear one’s gone!

  Weary and alone I must bear this yearning,

  Comfort there is none till my love’s returning;

  My own dear one’s gone!

  Spring will soon be here bringing joy and gladness;

  But to me no Spring can bring ought but sadness;

  My own dear one’s gone!

  —“My Own Dear One’s Gone”

  I woke up on Monday morning after a surprisingly sound sleep. With all that was on my mind, I had expected to toss about all night.

  As I awoke, my mind turned toward God.

  How different were my thoughts on that Monday morning than any thoughts about him I had ever had before. Even as I lay in bed, I felt warm and cozy, strange as it is to say it, knowing that God’s fathering arms were still wrapped about me just as they had been on the beach the day before. With a return of that memory, everything Mrs. Urquhart told me no longer seemed quite so overwhelming.

  If God loved me as a good and loving Father, he must also love Gwendolyn and Mrs. Urquhart and Alasdair Reidhaven. His open arms must be waiting for them—though Gwendolyn’s aunt was an elder and supposedly one of the spiritual leaders of the church—just as they had been waiting for me.

  But what was I to do? What should I do now… today?

  What was I supposed to do?

  As far as I could tell, it seemed that I was the only person who had a relationship with all three. Yet they were of the same flesh and blood, and I was an outsider.

  Almost the moment the question came to me, two thoughts popped into my head.

  After morning tea and some time reading and playing my harp, I set out on the two errands that resulted.

  The first was to the Urquharts where I put a note through the door that read:

  Dear Mrs. Urquhart,

  I will not ring the bell or try to talk to you out of respect for what you said. But if you would agree to one more visit from me, I would like to bring my harp over and set it up so that Gwendolyn can continue playing, even if I am not there. I think it is good for her. You know where I am staying. I will await your reply.

  Marie Buchan

  Then I set out for the castle. I needed to find out from Alasdair what was going on.

  He almost seemed to be expecting me. He opened the door himself, nodded, almost without a smile yet with an expression that said without words, “Come in, we’ve got things to talk about.”

  He led me upstairs and along the main corridor of the first floor, but continuing on to the end of it, then turning right for a short distance along a narrower hallway. He stopped and opened a door and I found myself on the other side of the tapestry wall where he had been sitting when I had first played my harp for him. An end of one of the screens had been folded back so that the larger room was visible beyond it. We sat down in the sitting area that I had not seen before now. It was furnished much like the rest of the room. From this side the large tapestries on the walls were spectacular.

  We had hardly taken seats before Miss Forbes followed with atray of tea things, which she set on a low coffee table in front ofthe couch where I sat down. Then she left us and we were alone.

  “I am glad you came,” said Alasdair. “I half expected you. If you hadn’t come, I would have gone to you.”

  “You wanted to talk to me?” I said.

  “I felt I needed to explain about yesterday.”

  “You owe me no explanations.”

  “But I do. I owe you everything.”

  “I don’t understand. For what?” I asked.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No.”

  “For bringing me out of my shell, for waking life in me again,” he said.

  “What did I do?” I laughed.

  “Your music sparked something in me that I had not felt for many years, maybe that I had never felt. It began that first day when you played in the churchyard. Then when you were here, at the other end of this same room, when I was sitting here, I thought I had never heard anything so lovely, so peaceful, so haunting. I could not see your face, but I knew that whoever was capable of making such music must have a soul that somehow understood, not just the music… but that somehow understood me… that must know me. The music of your harp was like a surgeon’s knife. It probed deep into me as only music can. It made me both sad and happy at once. I wanted to jump up and shout for joy. I wanted to weep in despair for a life wasted and squandered.”

  I could hardly believe that my music could have evoked such a deep response. Especially when I hadn’t even known him at the time.


  “When you were almost through, that first day,” Alasdair went on, “when you began playing ‘Eleanor Rigby’—I felt, not the surgeon’s knife, but a dagger of loneliness stabbing straight into my heart. The song came rushing back upon me out of my memory. Poor Eleanor Rigby, alone in a church where nobody hears… ‘all the lonely people’… ‘where do they all belong?’”

  I sat listening in silence as he continued to share deeply from his heart.

  “All these thoughts rushed through me in an instant,” Alasdair went on. “The stunning realization hit me with almost heart-sickening force… I myself had become Eleanor Rigby. You were playing my song. I was Eleanor Rigby. I was alone and lonely, only a stone’s throw from the church, over which, technically you might say, I am titular head as laird of the parish. But I never darkened its doors. Eleanor Rigby, or make it Alasdair Reidhaven, near the church where nobody hears his lonely heart.

  “I sometimes used to open my window on a Sunday and listen to the sounds from the church across the wall, listen to them singing the hymns. I could even hear Reddy’s voice, though I couldn’t make out what he said. But I could never actually show my face there. It would cause too much talk, and stir up too many old wounds.”

  “But surely you could go to church. You would be as welcome as anyone.”

  “Welcome, perhaps. But it would stir up too much. So I chose to listen in my Eleanor Rigby loneliness from the other side of the wall, separated from that church and all it represents by only a few yards, but separated by a gulf too great to cross. The irony of hearing you play that song about loneliness in the church, as such a picture of my own life… it finally overcame me as I listened to you that first day. Tears stung my eyes. I am sorry, but that is when I rose and left, through that door there. Even though you were not finished, I was too overcome. I have wanted to apologize to you ever since. I had not wept since I was a boy, but I wept on that day. Your music woke tears in me. I could not face what they meant. I don’t know that I have yet faced what those tears meant. But… I am sorry.”