Nanny to the Shifter

by Leela Ash

  Andrea had inherited her Grandma's creative talents and she had been close to Betty when she was a child, closer than to her own mother, but after college she had been offered a three-year contract with a major advertising company in New York, and it had been too good an opportunity to turn down. Betty had understood that she needed to fly the nest. She had been a young woman once, although that seemed such a long time ago.

  Andrea had only seen her Gran when she flew home for Christmas and important family occasions. Then she had met Steve and her life in the US seemed to take on a more permanent footing, until the death of her Grandma had made her suddenly homesick for the English countryside. She loved the buzz and fast-paced life of New York but now longed for some peace and time to reflect and find herself again, and she certainly couldn't do that on Fifth Avenue.

  Steve had stayed behind. He was in the middle of an important project but was willing to travel with her on a trip home for the funeral. For once Andrea didn't feel the need to be accompanied; this time she wanted to be alone with her thoughts and memories. Her insistence on being alone had caused a strain between them, the first serious rift since they got together almost two years ago, and it would be the first time they had spent any real time apart.

  The pressure of the stone against her palm brought her back to the present. It had been almost five days since she left JFK airport, and Steve hadn't phoned her since. Not even yesterday after the funeral to see how she was coping. It saddened her to think the man she had grown to love could be so stubborn and heartless, and she began to question her commitment to the relationship. Did she really know him? He had seemed to be perfect for her, and she had enjoyed his company; yet when she looked back at the continual rounds of friends and parties, drinks and dinners, it seemed somewhat shallow. Lately she had started to feel broody; her body clock reminding her that time was ticking away. She had mentioned it to Steve once in a light-hearted way, and he had held up his hands in mock horror. That would never be the deal with him; his career was way too important, and her needs would always come second.

  Did she and Steve really have anything in common?

  The day was grey and coarse; the wind whipped up sharply from behind the trees and caused her to shiver. She had forgotten the English weather and hadn't prepared nor packed for it.

  Opening her palm, Andrea looked down at the stone in her hand. She remembered seeing it as a child, taking prize position behind the glass in the old china cabinet in her Gran’s front room. Occasionally she had been allowed to take it out and hold it in her small palm. It was pale in color, not quite white and not quite beige. Several markings had been etched deeply into the surface, and she’d been told it once belonged to a white witch with magical powers. As a child, she had held the small token and made a secret wish that she would never grow up, that she would always remain a child. Of course, that hadn't happened. Not physically, anyway—but perhaps in her heart?

  Grandma Betty had always been so full of life, her small blue eyes twinkling on the wrinkled and careworn face. There had been some sadness in her youth, but no one had talked of it and Andrea had never asked, but sometimes she saw a wistful shadow slightly dimming those sparkling eyes.

  And now the stone was hers—that and an old battered leather diary from 1956. Before her death, Grandma Betty had written her a letter, the hand-writing barely legible on the expensive vellum cream paper. It had taken her a while to read the spidery hand.

  Andrea,

  My darling Granddaughter, I fear that I may not see you again. I do hope that is not the case, but I have to be practical. There is so much I should have told you and so much left to say, but my time is running out. Remember the wishing stone you used to ask me about as a child? I leave that to you. It's my most valued possession. You must promise that you will do something for me? The stone needs to be returned to its rightful home on the Isle of Iona, just off the Isle of Mull. You must take it into the Abbey and enter the little graveyard of St. Oran's chapel. Take the stone and place it on the third grave on the left-hand side. I can't explain everything to you in this letter. Most of it I don't understand myself. But you must promise me this, this small pilgrimage of mine. The diary may help? Call it an old woman's ramblings, but as you loved me please do this one last thing for me. The thought of you, my only remaining flesh and blood carrying out this last request, brings peace to my mind as I near my end.

  I will never stop loving you even when I am far away.

  Grandma Betty x

  Tears trickled down her face as she imagined the dear old lady sitting up in bed, scribbling her last instructions to the world. It must have taken a lot of effort to write the letter. She had been in a very weak state in the end and therefore must have considered it extremely important to write.

  Andrea had promised Steve she would be back in a few days, but what would a few more matter? It wasn't as if he was speaking to her anyhow. She would visit Iona. It was the last thing she could do for her grandmother, and although it would mean a further 1000 mile round trip, it would give her some peace of mind to follow her last wishes.

  The phone vibrated in her jeans pocket, and pulling it out, she could see it was Steve calling from New York.

  "Hey." His voice was deep and apologetic across the miles, and her heart thumped loudly at the sound of him.

  "Hey, back." She tried to sound light as she finished their usual greeting.

  "So, how are you?"

  She could tell he was struggling to find the right words.

  "Not too bad, under the circumstances. It was the funeral yesterday." Andrea could feel herself start to choke on the words; she had been bottling things up for too long.

  There was a pause as Steve caught his breath. "Yesterday? Andrea, I'm so sorry, I would have called. I thought it was today."

  Another lengthy pause ensued. Usually they had so much to talk about.

  "At least you'll be home tomorrow,” he added. “I've missed you."

  And now it was crunch time.

  "Steve, I won't be coming home tomorrow. I've extended my stay by a week." She could hear disappointment in the silence that followed.

  "I have to go up to Scotland, to Iona. It was Gran’s last wish."

  "What?"

  His voice sounded incredulous, as if he hadn’t quite heard her right.

  "It's just something I have to do; it was her dying wish that I visit the chapel there."

  "But honey, you don't have to do that now. Not right away, anyway. You haven't forgotten the opening night for my exhibition, have you? It's in four days. I want you by my side. You promised."

  Andrea had forgotten, and she closed her eyes as if that would make things go away. She had tried that as a child; it hadn't worked then, and it didn't help now. It just gave her a few more seconds to think.

  "Andrea?"

  "It was her last wish, Steve. I've got to do it."

  She could feel his exasperation as he breathed heavily into his phone.

  "Are you crazy? You know how much this exhibition means to me. You're not really going to put your senile old grandmother ahead of me, ahead of us?"

  "Grandma Betty wasn't senile!"

  "I know, honey. I know how much she meant to you, but you've got to be reasonable."

  She was three and a half thousand miles away, and “reasonable” was something she didn't have to be. The word irritated her, and she could feel the anger rising in her throat.

  "Andrea?"

  She pressed the end call button and put the phone back in her pocket. End of call, end of relationship, she guessed. She shouldn’t have felt angry; she knew the exhibition meant everything to him. She should be the one feeling sorry and calling him back to apologize, but Andrea didn't feel any of these things. Her grandmother dying and her trip home had sparked something inside her, some longing and need that she couldn't quite grasp. The only thing that she was certain of was that she needed to travel to Iona as soon as possible.

  Chapter 2 />
  The next day she was leaving Yorkshire, traveling by train up North to the Inner Hebrides of Scotland and would complete her journey by ferry to the tiny Island of Iona.

  Although still cold outside, the sun was shining brightly in a vain attempt to warm the chill October air. Inside the carriage, Andrea was cozy, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the world race by. The scenery of the Northumberland coastline stretching its way up North was breathtaking, the sunlight dancing and glimmering on the waves as they brushed against the solitary, rocky bays.

  She felt truly liberated.

  It would take most of the day to reach Iona, so Andrea settled back in her seat. She had no book to read but then remembered the small pocket diary from 1956 in her bag and eagerly pulled it out.

  The pages were yellowing and the diary entries didn't start until June that year. The writing was faint, but she could just about make it out.

  June 13th, 1956

  Arrived on Iona after a long journey. Fishing boat brought me over from the main Island of Mull. Mother still not pleased with my decision to take a few months away, but I need some time to paint and think. There is plenty of time to become a housewife.

  Andrea smiled. She had married Grandpa Joe in 1958, so not too many years of being free and single.

  Little pencil sketches filled the margins of the paper: a fishing boat (maybe the one she had traveled across the water in?) and a hut or shack standing alone. It looked bleak.

  June 14th, 1956

  Digs are basic and chilly. The walls are made of corrugated metal so very cold at night. Porridge and kippers for breakfast, which I have surprisingly enjoyed. It’s much warmer outside in the early summer air than in my poky little room. Glad to get out in fresh air and now am going to walk over to the Abbey.

  19:15- Had a lovely day. The Island is truly breathtaking. The Abbey is a very special place and it felt strange yet welcoming, almost if I had come home. My great, great-grandfather’s family were Scottish—one of the Great McDonald Clan—maybe that is why? I must go back and do more sketches tomorrow in the early light. Have been told the sunrise here is spectacular.

  June 15th, 1953

  Up early. The sky is still dark, but I want to set up my easel in the little chapel grounds so I can start to capture the first rays of light against the Abbey, and get a feel for the colors and the peace at that time of day.

  The rest of the diary entries ended there. But towards the back of the book the scribbling started once again, not in any particular date order, but just what seemed like a collection of thoughts.

  I’m not sure what happened at the Chapel? I seemed to have passed out in the cemetery. I had found an ideal spot for my sketches amongst the ancient burial places, and the last thing I remember was finding a strange looking carved stone in the grass. After that, it all becomes a little bit dreamlike and it can’t have been too long after that I must have fainted or something. I can’t remember feeling ill. When I came to, which must have been only seconds later, I was seized with an awful pain within my stomach and had a bitter taste in my mouth. I was crying and wretched and was violently sick and that seemed to make things a little better, but I felt weak and tired. Maybe it was something I ate for breakfast? Perhaps the kippers don’t agree with me, after all? I have these strange images in my head—hallucinations or dreams—and the people I see are so vivid. I feel disoriented as if I have been snatched out of a deep sleep. I don't seem to have any physical injuries except a cut to my right ankle. The strange stone was still in my hand. I am very tired and feel a sense of deep loss.

  My dreams are bright, and I can see HIM clearly, Alexhander McDonald, in my head. It is the same name carved into the headstone in front of me as I sat sketching, and although it is scarcely legible, it must be the same. The date reads 1644.

  There was a sketch of a man’s head, a rugged and yet handsome face with long, flowing, wavy hair.

  The following pages were free of writing, but there were countless doodles of swords and shields, women and men in medieval dress, some tartan clad. There was a sketch of the small stone and numerous other images that seemed from a time gone by. The words “My dreams?” were scrawled underneath.

  The next entry was June 22nd, 1956.

  I think I am losing my mind. Slowly parts of my dreams are returning and they feel so real. I constantly think about this man, Alexhander McDonald, and I feel almost bereft, as if I have lost somebody close to me. I don’t know what really happened to me that day at the chapel, but my emotions are really mixed up for some reason. Maybe I am ill?

  On July 30th there was one last entry:

  Continuing to paint but not feeling myself. Felt odd since that morning at the chapel and the dreams continue to disturb me. Perhaps I will see Doctor Smith when I return home. Just a few more weeks left on the Island.

  There were no more entries. If Andrea hadn't known any better, she would have thought the writer’s life had ended there. Yet she was living proof that it hadn't. As she flicked through the final pages, a small, square, black-and-white photograph fell from the diary and onto the plastic table of the train. It was a picture of Betty around her own age. She had forgotten how much she resembled her Gran. Apart from the clothing and the haircut, it could have been a photograph of her. Those magnificent eyes stared back into her own. If only she was still alive and had told her this story before. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but now she would never know the answers.

  Andrea closed her eyes and started to doze. She felt part of something, inexplicable though it might be. It almost seemed to be her destiny, riding on the train on this bright October day. She began to drift off into a light sleep, the rhythm of wheels on the track softly lulling her eyes closed. Grandma Betty appeared in her dreams and she was smiling and content. A small boy wearing a brown fur wrapping was in her arms. Her hands reached out, holding the child towards Andrea, but as she tried to take the boy, a mist gathered around her until the two figures were lost to her.

  "Oban, Miss."

  The gentle lilting accent permeated her dreaming, and she slowly opened one eye and then the other.

  "We've reached the final destination, Miss. We're in Oban."

  Chapter 3

  Mull was just an hour ferry ride over the Atlantic. Standing on the deck of the boat with the sea breeze in her hair, Andrea couldn't be further away from the girl in New York if she tried. Wearing little make-up and her old jeans and sweater, she felt relaxed. None of her chic friends would recognize her here, especially not as the partner of the up-and-coming artist Steve Dench. Here she was simply Andrea.

  It was just a little after 6:00 pm as she stepped off the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry and onto the Island of Iona. A jeep from the Hotel Columba was waiting to collect her, but she preferred to walk and stretch her legs. Letting the hotel staff take her luggage, Andrea set off down the rugged road. It was only a five minute walk to the place, but the sun was starting to set and the sky was cast with ripples of purple and orange towards the west. Taking a shortcut through the nunnery ruins, peace and solitude hung on every stone, every ledge. Surely this was a glimpse of heaven? Andrea felt as if she were at the end of the world, a place where man lived in harmony with nature. It was so quiet and peaceful.

  Even the hotel painted white and blue seemed part of the landscape. It was bigger than she expected and the aromas of the local menu hit her as she stepped into the small reception area. Her room was cozy, so different from the tin shack her Grandmother had described in the diary. From her window, she could just see a faint white glow from the walls of the Abbey. She would explore tomorrow, but right now she needed a bath and a change of clothes before a delicious dinner. As she unzipped her jeans, she felt the phone in her pocket. It had been switched off all day and when she switched it back on there were five missed calls from Steve.

  She would meet that obstacle when she needed to, but right now there were more urgent callings.

  Andrea slept remark
ably well and was up just as the light started to creep through the dark material of the curtains. Her usual strict regime of a drink of warm water with a squeeze of lemon followed by a selection of fruit and soy yogurt was eagerly replaced by a good old British fry up of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home-grown tomatoes and a large coffee. Her size-zero friends would be positively sick at the thought of such a high-calorie start to the day and the thought made her laugh out loud. An old lady sitting at the table opposite glanced up from her morning newspaper. She had a kindly face and twinkling eyes, just like her grandmother. She smiled as Andrea tried to apologize, but there was no need.

  Picking up a leaflet about the Abbey on the way out, she stepped into the chill morning air. The sun had risen in the east, casting a pale lemon glow across the land. Rounding the corner of the hotel, the Abbey came into full view, majestic and peaceful in the morning air. The weak sunlight lit up the stonework with a soft golden glow, making the whole thing ethereal, almost magical.

  She could feel the significance of the place in the air, almost as if she were breathing in the history. From Saint Columba almost 1500 years ago to the Viking Raids, from the Reformation of the Churches to the warring of the great Scottish Clans, this place had seen it all.

  It was a Sunday, so the visitor center was closed and the ticket office unmanned, but she would still be able to visit the little chapel mentioned in her grandmother’s letter.

  She would see Reilig Odhráin, the little cemetery beside Sràid nam Marbh, “the street of the dead,” where legend has it many ancient Scottish kings were laid to rest.

  It was a very special place indeed.