The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  “I will take that as a compliment!” laughed Macgregor. “I would add that it is an honor to meet you . . . again. I was too young when you were here after the war. I had been hearing about you all my life and was probably a little awed to see you in the flesh. It is different now to see you and talk to you as—”

  “Man to man,” suggested Brogan.

  “Something like that,” Macgregor said and smiled. “Anyway, I hope to have the chance to visit with you further.”

  “So then,” Brogan said, “what were all those things you heard about me?”

  “About yours and my father’s exploits all over the island,” replied his nephew, “replete with Vikings and caves and all manner of legends.”

  “Don’t believe everything your father tells you!”

  “Perhaps I shall have to get your version of events while you are here.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a striking girl in her mid-teens. Unlike most others on this day, she had little interest in the elder Tulloch. Her eyes were reserved for Wallace’s son.

  “Hello, Macgregor,” she said.

  “Oh . . . hello, Odara,” replied Macgregor. “This is my uncle, Brogan Tulloch. He’s an American. Uncle Brogan, this is Odara Innes, daughter of our veterinarian.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Innes,” said Brogan. “I’m not really an American, though I do live there. I will always be a Shetlander.”

  Only moderately intrigued, the girl briefly took in the features of Brogan’s face. Her interest, however, lasted only a moment. She quickly turned and flashed her eyes again on Macgregor.

  “Go have something to eat, Odara,” he said. “Uncle Brogan and I have things to talk about.”

  Obviously disappointed, the girl wandered off.

  “Now there is a lassie with serious interest in you,” whispered Brogan.

  “She’s only seventeen,” rejoined Macgregor.

  “She is a beauty.”

  “I’ll give her that. But young.”

  “She’ll grow.”

  “Then ask me what I think five years from now. Ah, here’s Alexander.”

  Leith’s twenty-three-year-old son now joined them.

  “Hi, Uncle Brogan,” he said, giving his uncle a friendly handshake. “Don’t let this chap sell you any peat bricks and tell you they’re gold!”

  “Does he make a habit of such things?” laughed Brogan.

  “He’s always looking for an angle with the tourists,” quipped Alexander, “especially foreign women.”

  “Is he now—?” said Brogan.

  “A complete fabrication!” rejoined Macgregor.

  “Come now, cousin,” chided Alexander, “you cannot deny that a foreign accent turns your head.”

  “That sounds like me!” said Brogan. “I was terrible that way when I was young. You had better be careful, Macgregor,” he added, turning back to the older of the two. “One never knows where one’s antics will lead. That’s how I met my wife!”

  If their two fathers were not bothered by the island scuttlebutt about the laird’s will, the friendship of the two cousins was equally unscathed by the controversy. The best of friends, Macgregor and Alexander were likewise delighted by the fact that they would one day, like their fathers, share in leading their clan, one as laird and the other as chief.

  As uncle and two nephews chatted amiably, Brogan’s wife was approached by a redheaded young man in his late thirties.

  ———

  I could tell she didna ken who I was at first, said Sandy with a smile. So I hung back. I was jist waitin’ tae attract her attention wi’out fanfare. My wife an’ my sister were at my side, an’ I couldna help smiling, wonderin’ if she’d remember the day on the moor wi’ the Auld Laird. I felt a mite sheepish standin’ there amid all the family, greetin’ one anither.

  Then at last she saw me waitin’ tae speak tae her, an’ she glanced toward me wi’ an expression of question, then took a step toward me.

  “Hello . . .” she said uncertainly.

  “Hello, Miss Hanson . . . or Mrs. Tulloch, I mean,” I said. I could feel the smile widening on my face. But still she didna ken me.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, “but I . . . I don’t seem—”

  “I see ye dinna remember me,” I said. “’Tis been a long time. I was but a wee urchin. We met one day oot on the moor w’ the laird. We were helpin’ a wee sparrow die in peace. Then we met again in Annabella’s cottage.”

  She drew in a gasp as recognition dawned.

  “Of course! Sandy Innes! Oh, I can’t believe it. Sandy, how absolutely wonderful to see you again!”

  She stepped forward an’ embraced me like a son. As short as the other men o’ the island considered me, I stood at least three inches above the dear lady. She was a tiny one, she was!

  “I would like ye tae meet my wife, Daracha,” I said.

  “Daracha . . . what a beautiful name. I’ve never heard it before.”

  My wife smiled an’ curtsied shyly.

  “An’ here’s my sister, Eldora,” I said. “She wanted tae meet ye as weel. Ye see, they’ve both heard the story o’ the wee sparrow many times.”

  “I am happy to meet you both . . . Eldora, Daracha. Your Sandy will always be a dear friend in my memory. Sandy,” she said, turning again to me an’ shakin’ her head kinda like she still wasna altogether sure it was me, “you cannot know how many times I have thought of you through the years. And now here you are with two lovely women at your side!”

  “An’ oor daughter Odara is aroun’ somewhere,” I said, glancin’ aboot. “I’m afraid she has eyes for the new laird’s son.”

  The dear lady laughed, an’ the sound o’ her voice is wi’ me still.

  ———

  Meanwhile, Brogan, Macgregor, and Alexander had now been joined by several of the younger cousins, all of whom stared up at Brogan with wide eyes and expressions of mingled curiosity and awe. Like the two older boys, all their lives they had been hearing about this mythical man who had gone to America. Now here he was in front of them—full of life, good-looking, pleasant, on happy terms with everyone, to all appearances the apple of Sally’s eye, or at least one of several, for she made much over her family.

  By now groups from the village were arriving rapidly. Brogan found himself facing a steady stream of former acquaintances anxious to exchange greetings. They were older, grayer, sporting less hair, and carrying more pounds. Brogan had to have his wits about him to pull up the dozens of names from his memory to attach to the faces surrounding him.

  “I say!” he exclaimed as two men approached, “if it isn’t Donal Kerr . . . and Kyle MacNeill! The two men who keep Whales Reef supplied with beer and bread!”

  “Yer memory’s as sharp as yer eye is keen, laddie,” said Kerr with a laugh. “Fan ye went tae America, I lost ane o’ my best customers!”

  Brogan roared with laughter.

  “Hoo’s the brew in America, Brogan lad?”

  “Canna haud a candle tae yer’s, Donal,” replied Brogan, briefly taking up the dialect of his youth. “’Tis enough tae turn a man into a teetotaler! Hoo’s Nyssa?”

  “She’s aboot somewye, an’ anxious tae see ye!”

  “An’ I her. Hoo aboot yersel’, MacNeill? Hoo gaes the trade in butteries, breads, an’ fancies?”

  “Middlin’, Brogan,” said the baker. “My son’ll be takin’ o’or from me naist year, ye ken.”

  “Yoong Tavish! Weel, good for him. I wish the lad weel. An’ dis my e’en deceive me?” said Brogan. “Is that Laren Gordon ahin ye . . . an’ Dinky Munro?” he added as another group of men from the village joined them. “An’ if it isn’t Cousin MacBean an’ Uncle Peter!” he continued to exclaim, going around the expanding group and shaking each man’s hand in turn.

  “How du ye keep in mind o’ us a’?” asked Peter Gunn.

  “I never forgot a soul on Whales Reef,” said Brogan to his great-uncle. “Most of you I saw seven years ago. You
haven’t changed so much. And who’s this laddie beside you, Uncle Peter?”

  “My son, Fergus.”

  “Hello, laddie. I’m Brogan. You and me are family somehow or another, but to tell you the truth I’m not sure of all the connections between the Tullochs an’ MacBeans and Gunns and Cauleys. Can you blame me for being confused!”

  85

  The Study

  When evening came, every Tulloch from the Cottage and the Auld Hoose—by blood and marriage—was exhausted.

  At ten o’clock, every bed and pillow was occupied, every light off, and sounds of slumber filled the two ancestral homes, as well as that of Delynn’s family in the village.

  By seven the next morning, an enormous fire blazed away in the huge stone fireplace of the Cottage. Sally’s housekeeper had tea and coffee ready for the earliest of the risers, with fresh pots added as family and guests wandered down the stairs.

  Brogan entered the familiar breakfast room about nine and saw Sally, her grandson Alexander, and Robert Glendenning and his son engaged in animated conversation.

  “Hello, all,” he said. “Whew—I had no idea how tired I was! I must have slept ten or eleven hours!”

  “Airplanes do that to you,” said Glendenning. “I had to fly over to New York and back a few years ago in the space of four days. I didn’t recover for two weeks. Get several cups of Mrs. Graves’s strong coffee into you is my advice.”

  “Nothing could sound better,” said Brogan, dropping into a chair. “Good morning, Sally.”

  “And to you, Brogan,” rejoined Sally, rising and walking to one of the sideboards laden with food and drink.

  “Where’s Leith?” asked Brogan.

  “Out with the sheep,” answered Alexander.

  “Good for him. A chief’s first duty is to his herds and flocks, the Bible says . . . loosely translated, that is! I’ve been meaning to ask,” Brogan added. “I didn’t see Annabella Raoghnailt yesterday. Is she still living?”

  “She passed away since you were here last,” replied Sally as she poured out a cup of coffee.

  “That’s a shame. We had hoped to see her.”

  Sally set a cup and saucer in front of her stepson. “Cream, as I recall?”

  “Sally, you are a dear—thank you!” said Brogan. “And yes, cream if you have it.”

  “We have everything, thanks to the villagers’ generosity!” said Sally, walking over to the pantry. “Jugs of fresh cream from the island’s cows, and anything else you could want.”

  “The only thing missing right now is Dad,” said Brogan as he sipped from his cup a minute later. “The last time I was here, he and I were enjoying coffee together, just like this. But you never stop to think, Hmm, this may be the last time I see this person. It’s easy to take the best things in life for granted. I wish I hadn’t waited so long to rekindle that most precious of human relationships . . . between father and son.”

  “Your father understood, Brogan,” said Sally. “You had your own life to live. There was the Depression, then the war, financial difficulties, travel was expensive. The island’s finances slumped badly too, as you know. We really couldn’t afford to help.”

  “Of course, I’ve told myself all the reasons,” said Brogan. “Still, I should have found a way to come sooner.”

  “Don’t forget that you and your father both tried to correspond, and your efforts were subverted.”

  “Believe me, I will never forget that! I only hope someday I will find a way to forgive it.”

  “Fortunately, even such duplicity could not prevent love finding a way. Your time together during the war, and then your return here when it was over, were highlights of his life. He spoke of it ever after, and of the bond he felt with you.”

  Later that afternoon, as predicted, Priscilla appeared at the Cottage with a loaded truck and two hired villagers. Wallace followed as she marched through the door with an apologetic expression on his face at the obvious importunity of his wife.

  Sally used the opportunity to take Brogan and his wife aside for a private talk.

  ———

  “Strange tae say,” said Sandy as a thoughtful expression came over his face, “I happened tae be in the Cottage at that moment. I saw the three o’ them holdin’ counsel together as they walked toward the staircase.”

  “I thought only the family was at the Cottage on the day after the funeral,” said Loni.

  Sandy nodded. “’Tis true . . . mostly true, that is. But ye see, there’d been a problem wi’ one o’ the laird’s ponies, givin’ birth she was, an’ I was at the Cottage till the wee hours. So I came back that next afternoon tae see tae the bit wee coltie an’ that all was weel wi’ both mother an’ the tiny animal, no bigger than a doggie.”

  “And was all well?” asked Loni.

  “Oh, aye—the newborn was healthy an’ hungry an’ already scamperin’ aboot on his wee leggies. An’ what I was sayin’ is that Sally was oot wi’ me in the barn—that was her way, ye ken . . . she loved the animals, an’ her hert was as full o’ them as it was for the folk on the island. When I had done in the barn, she told me tae come into the hoose an’ see the folk again an’ hae a bite tae eat, an’ when I left tae take a platter or two back home tae Daracha. That was her way, ye ken—everyone on the island was welcome in the Cottage.

  “I went inside wi’ Lady Sally an’ sat doon with Brogan an’ yoong Macgregor. Wallace’s wife eyed me sternly as I came in—that’s the Lady Priscilla, ye ken—an’ I knew what she was sayin’ wi’oot her sayin’ it, that I’d nae mair see the inside o’ the Cottage once she was mistress o’ the place—which was true enough. She was a rum one.

  “Then Lady Sally took Brogan an’ his wife aside an’ said she wanted tae talk tae them, in private, ye ken. It was time for me tae be goin’ by then, an’ as I was leavin’ they were jist disappearin’ up the stairway. O’ course I ne’er heard a word o’ what passed a’tween them. ’Twas family business, ye ken, an’ none o’ mine. But I knew the laird an’ Lady Sally weel enough tae ken what it was likely aboot. Whate’er passed between them nae doobt concerned the heritage that’s come tae ye, an’ the laird’s legacy, an’ the inheritance ye came tae Whales Reef tae discover.”

  ———

  Sally led Brogan and his wife upstairs into her husband’s study off the landing at the top of the stairs. Once there, she closed the door behind them. She inserted a large key, ancient and iron-brown, into the lock and turned it. A dull metallic clank signified that the three were cloistered inside the private chamber of learning, study, and reflection, the sanctuary and prayer closet of Ernest Tulloch. Sally removed the key.

  Brogan sensed the import of the moment. On every side the antiquity and venerable effluence of the room’s contents emanated an aura of wisdom and, for Brogan, bittersweet nostalgia. Occasional tables contained piles of books and random keepsakes and memorabilia, every one of which had a story. Paintings and a few tapestries and tartans hung from what space on the walls was not covered with books. Faded and worn colorful Persian rugs lay underfoot. Most striking of all, however, were the floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined with hundreds of volumes spanning the centuries. Pervading the room floated the distinctive intermingling perfumes of old oak, varnish, leather, wool, paper, ink, and dust.

  “Oh, look—there’s the roll-top desk I brought him,” said Brogan, indicating an oak desk that sat against the far wall of the room. “And open, as if still in use.”

  “It was never closed,” said Sally. “He sat at it every day. This other desk in the middle of the room he used for business. Your roll-top was his spiritual retreat in the sanctuary of his study. It is where he kept his writings and most prized devotional books.”

  “It makes me happy to hear that,” said Brogan. “I can visualize him sitting there.”

  He stood staring down at several stacks of books, papers, two bound journals, and at least half a dozen Bibles. Two Bibles lay open. His father had obviously been using this place almost until t
he day of his death.

  “He treasured this desk,” said Sally. “All the more knowing that you made it with your own hands. He continually raved about the craftsmanship. He marveled as well that you were able to transport it safely all this distance.”

  “That was somewhat difficult,” Brogan said with a smile. “But it was something I wanted to do, something of myself that I could give him.”

  “It meant the world to him.” Sally paused briefly. “How fitting,” she went on as her eyes flitted about. “Here is his favorite Bible, open to the fourth chapter of Philippians. And this Moffatt Testament, almost equally marked, open to second Timothy, chapter four. He knew his time was short. And here are the Scotsman’s four volumes of sermons in a place of honor between Ernest’s favorite bookends, along with Drummond, Kempis, Kierkegaard, Woolman . . . and his new friend Kelly, which was never far from him.”

  “Seeing this desk again,” said Brogan at length, “I think I will make some drawings when I am here, to compare with the originals in my files. Grant and I will make another at home—an exact duplicate. It will be a tangible reminder of my father.”

  “You could ship this one home,” said Sally. “Nothing would please me more than for you to have it.”

  “Thank you, Sally. But this desk needs to remain just where it is. It is part of my father’s legacy.”

  Sally’s deportment became solemn and reverential. The dignified stature of her years enfolded her countenance as she sat down in the faded green leather chair behind her husband’s business table. She lay the key down she had taken from the door. Scattered over the surface in front of her were an assortment of papers, files, folders, and documents mostly in his own hand, several fountain pens, and an inkwell.

  Sally’s two guests eased themselves into the two chairs opposite her.

  “What a wonderful place this is,” said Brogan softly. “It looks so different to my eyes now than when my father brought me here for our annual birthday talks before we struck out over the island. I was oblivious then to the spiritual currents running within him. Suddenly everything is imbued with . . . I don’t know what to call it other than holiness.”