Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  "Gaelic," she began, pronouncing it 'Gah-lick' like a native speaker, "is one of the six Celtic languages..."

  From that point on, Kate Ingram played an increasingly active role in the education of her granddaughter. Other languages had not been rejected, simply reprioritized. She could learn German at school and Gaelic at home. And college would be a fine place to learn French—at least a reading knowledge of it—and Latin too of course. But the choice of college would ultimately come down to the study of Gaelic. Maggie and her grandmother spent countless hours investigating and comparing potential colleges, even visiting a few the summer before her senior year. Finally, Maggie had settled on the University of California at Berkeley. The selling point, aside from the fact that it boasted the oldest degree granting Celtic department in the country, had been its exchange program with the University of Aberdeen.

  While Maggie had originally intended to study in Scotland during her junior year of college, it had quickly become apparent that while a Ph.D. in Celtic Languages might, maybe, secure her a professorship teaching that same subject to the next generation of gaelophiles, a simple B.A. was going to provide exactly zero professional opportunities. If she was to be serious about her studies, and her career, she had to accept the fact that she would have to earn a full Ph.D. Ironically the inevitability of this additional schooling had stripped away any sense of urgency from her study abroad plans. Grandma had not been pleased.

  "I thought you said you were going to Aberdeen next year?"

  "I did," Maggie had replied with a disinterested shrug, "but there's just too much going on right now. But don't worry. I've got plenty of time. Aberdeen will just have to wait."

  Kate Ingram had looked down at her wrinkled and spotted hands. "Wait," she had repeated. "But for how long?"

  In the event, four more years, as Maggie first completed her B.A., then studied for and passed her Master's exam. Only then, as a full-fledged doctoral candidate, was she ready finally to study abroad. She had been accepted at Aberdeen and would enroll directly once she arrived. Berkeley's Celtic Department agreed to give her a year's credit, so long as she authored a 100-page thesis on her area of focus. And Grandma had known of a Scottish-American foundation, 'The Ladies Albannach,' which had provided her a sizeable fellowship grant—and which Maggie suspected consisted of little more than her Grandmother's own circle of friends. Finally, in case she needed additional funds, Grandma had also known someone in the British consulate who had helped Maggie obtain a work permit. Everything was all set.

  And then Grandma took a turn for the worse.

  Maggie looked past Reverend Tilbury to the maple casket which held her grandmother's remains. Although she couldn't see the body from her pew, she could imagine her grandmother reclined peacefully, eyes closed and hands folded on her chest. Just as she had laid in the hospital bed the very last time Maggie had visited her, a week before she was supposed to leave for Aberdeen.

  Maggie had pushed the door open as quietly as she could and thought that perhaps she hadn't awakened her grandmother.

  "Come in, Maggie." The bedridden woman's eyes didn't open and her lips barely parted.

  "Hi, Grandma," Maggie croaked, her voice blocked by the brick in her throat. "How are you feeling?" What else was there to say?

  "Not too bad," Grandma breathed, her eyes still closed. "All things considered."

  "The doctors said—" Maggie stopped. The doctors had said her grandmother would not survive. The cancer was back, and it was too widespread now. Even if they could remove most of it, she couldn't withstand any more chemotherapy.

  "I know, Maggie." Kate Ingram opened her eyes and gazed up at her beloved granddaughter with a pained sigh. "Come sit down next to your grandmother."

  Maggie complied, her throat constricted.

  "Grandma, I—" but she didn't know what to say. She could speak Gaelic and German fluently, and English of course; she could read and write French and Latin, and she even knew a little bit of Russian her ex-boyfriend in college had taught her. Still words failed her.

  "Hush." Even in its raspy tone, her grandmother's voice carried authority. "I'm not very long to this world, Maggie, and I have some things to tell you yet."

  "Oh, Grandma." The tears were welling in Maggie's eyes. "Just rest."

  "I said hush," her grandmother repeated, "and listen. Maggie, your poor dear mother wasn't able to raise you, so I did what I could to help. I've tried to teach you about yourself, about your heritage, and about what's right and what's wrong."

  Kate Ingram's body was then racked by a coughing fit, but Maggie just sat silently, knowing her grandmother hadn't finished yet.

  When the coughing subsided, Kate continued, "I love you Maggie, like my own daughter. But try as I might I can't stay here with you for very much longer."

  "I love you too, Grandma," Maggie whispered.

  "But Maggie—" Again a cough. "Maggie, remember the things I've taught you. Remember who you are. Remember where you come from. Remember right from wrong." She wheezed a long, deep breath. "And know this: as long as you stay true to what's right, I will always be with you."

  And with that, Kate Ingram used up the last of her strength and closed her eyes. She would not open them again.

  Maggie squeezed her grandmother's hand one last time.

  "I love you, too, Grandma," she repeated. "Thank you."

  "And thank you all for coming."

  The Reverend's voice seized Maggie roughly and dragged her unceremoniously back to the church sanctuary. The eulogy was over and the mourners had started to rise. Maggie too stood and looked up at her all too mortal father as he rested his hand on her shoulder.

  "You okay, hon?"

  Maggie blinked, releasing a tear down either cheek. "No, Daddy. I'm not."

  And they turned to file out into the unjustifiably sunny afternoon.

  3. Half the Fun

  Maggie looked out the plane window, beneath heavy eyelids. They had been in the air for less than an hour, and her internal clock assured her it was only seven o'clock, but it had been a long, draining day. She hadn't been able to postpone her flight again and so had had to spend the day at the funeral and burial, only to rush home, finish her packing and race to the airport to catch her red-eye, over-the-Pole flight to London. She was tired.

  And the motion sickness pills weren't helping any. 'May cause drowsiness,' she thought as her eyes fought to stay open. The airplane wing was illuminated almost entirely by its own lights now, the sun intent on completing its descent into the horizon on the other side of the aircraft. Out Maggie's window, no moon was visible over the soft wool of the clouds.

  Maggie unfurled her blanket, covering her legs but leaving enough on her lap to pull over her shoulders once she was ready to sleep. She had buckled her seatbelt loosely over the blanket so as not to be disturbed by the stewardess should they encounter turbulence during the flight. The middle-aged man next to her, in seat 14B, was similarly belted and in fact was already asleep, plastic neck-pillow fully inflated.

  She leaned forward and unzipped her carry-on. She had three choices of reading material: the in-flight magazine filled with photographs of celebrities she didn't care about and already completed crossword puzzles; the latest installment in her favorite mystery writer's series; or one of the books her grandmother had left her. She pulled the hard-bound book from her grandmother onto her lap. In part to justify having shoved the heavy tome in her carry-on bag, in part because she actually wanted to read it, but mostly because, despite her sincere interest in Middle Gaelic literature, she thought it had the best chance of lulling her off to sleep.

  Her grandma had actually left her a total of five books, each a collection of Modern and/or Middle Gaelic prose and poetry. Four had made their way into her checked luggage, while this volume—the most interesting of the lot—had landed in her carry-on. So the pendant had helped her travel wardrobe and the books would help her travel reading. The final bequest would also aid her in her tr
ip to Aberdeen. Grandma had survived not only her husband, but also their only daughter, Ellen, Maggie's mother. Maggie too had been an only child, meaning that she was Grandma's only surviving descendant. Grandma had of course been aware of this and had formalized the arrangement by providing in her will that Maggie would receive, after various charitable bequests and the like, the bulk of her estate—on the condition she complete her year in Aberdeen. This condition was made all the more significant by the fact that the estate apparently included a quaint little cottage on Seattle's trendy Queen Anne Hill which had approximately quintupled in value since Grandma and Grandpa had paid off the mortgage several decades earlier. The end result was that when the year was done, Maggie would be looking at a nicely stocked bank —and a healthy monthly stipend in the meantime. She supposed she wouldn't need that work permit after all; she could focus fully on her studies. Even when, she considered as she gazed down at the 400-page collection of Middle Gaelic literature, those studies were used to lull her to sleep.

  Clicking on the overhead light, she paused for a moment to ensure this hadn't disturbed Mr. 14B. Then she cracked the book open to any page. Her Middle Gaelic was pretty good—not as good as her modern Gaelic or her Latin—but she was able to recognize most of the words and had a good feel for the short story she found herself reading. She quickly surmised that a young man named Diarmit had been selected for the priesthood only to fall deeply in love with a young maiden named Catrìona. The excerpt Maggie was reading appeared to be Diarmit's musings on the nature of love, the spirit, and service to God. It was structured as a sort of catechism, with Diarmit posing questions which he would then answer to the best of his ability.

  'How does one best serve the Lord?'

  'Cannot one serve the Lord by loving one of His creations?'

  'Has not the Lord created man and woman to live together as man and wife?'

  "Would you like anything to drink?"

  Maggie looked up at the stewardess with a start. The broad smile she encountered revealed large white teeth, as well as several reluctant wrinkles around its owner's mouth and eyes. Maggie wondered whether the woman had come late to stewardessing, or was simply a seasoned veteran in the field.

  "Um, no, thanks," Maggie replied. "I think I'll probably try to sleep soon."

  The stewardess nodded approvingly and then cocked her head to look at Mr. 14B. By all indications he was still fast asleep. The stewardess smiled again at Maggie, eyes squinting happily and a finger to her lips. She looked like someone else's mother.

  As the flight attendant turned her whispering attention to the passengers across the aisle, Maggie looked around and observed that the cabin was dark save a small handful of overhead lights like hers. Confirming that the woman behind her had already tilted her seat back, Maggie followed suit, snuggling down as best she could, and resting her head against the plastic wall to her left before returning her attention to her reading material. Diarmit didn't seem to be getting anywhere with his question and answer period. The words began to blur and Maggie squeezed her eyes shut to refocus them. Then she pulled her glasses off and tucked them loosely in the pocket of her blouse while she rubbed the bridge of her nose. She yawned deeply and closed the book on her thumb to mark her place while she closed her eyes for a moment. And after that moment she was asleep.

  * * *

  The rolling Scottish hills gathered themselves up to rise majestically into two towering crags, which in turn merged into a single granite peak. Tucked at the base of the green hills, where the valley came together in a perfect 'V' under the watchful eye of the mountain behind it, was a small loch, perfectly still and reflecting the dense Scottish clouds overhead. In the center of the loch was a small island which was almost completely covered by the stone castle which had been erected centuries before. Although boasting towering granite turrets at each corner, connected by impregnable stone walls with nothing more than thin arrow slits in their facades, the castle was nevertheless dwarfed by the majesty of the landscape which surrounded it. The island of the keep was connected to the mainland by a single long, narrow, stone bridge. Where the bridge ended, a rutted road curved lazily from the loch, winding slowly along the rolling landscape and rising invitingly to greet Maggie as she walked toward the castle for her coronation.

  The sky ahead of her was relatively light, albeit still gray. But as it arched over and behind her head, it gradually darkened and the wind at her back confirmed that a storm was on its way. Maggie looked down at her arms and observed that they—and in fact her entire body—were draped in a vibrant tartan, red with thin bright lines of white, yellow and blue. Her feet were bare and although the air was cooling and the wind was blowing, the earth was warm beneath her feet.

  As Maggie approached the bridge, the path ahead was flanked on either side by four pairs of young women, all approximately Maggie's age, and each pair dressed in a different vibrantly colored tartan: the first pair wore yellow, the second green, the third a pale blue, and finally the fourth pair, whose tartan matched Maggie's own. The wind was strong at Maggie's back now; it cut through the wool wrap and chilled her skin, pulling the plaid from her limbs and plastering it to her back. The sky behind her had fully darkened and the castle too had been thrown into the shadows of its mountainous protectors. A cold rain started and it cut across Maggie's face as she marched toward the bridge. As she came even with the first pair of gaily dressed women, she noticed them looking past her, seemingly oblivious to her presence, eyes wide and tears running silently down their cheeks. As she walked by and they passed from her view, she heard their screams rise and then fade as they were swallowed by the storm which was now on Maggie's heels. The next pair of women, dressed in green tartan, were devoured by the storm in the same manner. Maggie quickened her gait and pulled the scarlet tartan close around her shoulders. By the time she reached the pair of blue attendants, the sky was entirely dark except for a small halo of medium gray directly behind the castle—the castle which was still too far away. As the screams of the third pair were smothered by the now roaring din of the storm, a swatch of Maggie's plaid peeled away and flapped wildly behind her. She began to run.

  As she neared the fourth pair—those wearing the same tartan as she—the loose swatch pulled taut behind her and she fell to her knees. The rain had turned the path to a thick muck and she struggled to return to her feet even as the storm yanked on the plaid. She looked up; the bridge was only a few feet away. The sky was completely black now as she struggled against the pull on her wool wrap—only the glow from the open portico of the castle cast any light. Maggie knew she had to reach the castle. The two maidens in red had disappeared, but without a scream. The black storm wanted her now. Rain sliced at her face as she raised herself to her feet and sprinted across the bridge toward the main gate of the castle.

  The storm pulled again at her tartan and it unraveled from her body as she sped across the bridge. The storm was right behind her and slashed at her naked back like an animal. The wind and rain smashed away at the stone of the bridge under her feet and she raced to keep one step ahead lest she plummet into the icy loch below. Ahead of her the glowing courtyard burned brightly, but for the first time she noticed that the light shone through the lattice squares of an iron gate which blocked her entry into the castle.

  Maggie knew her only refuge lay inside the castle, but just as certainly she knew the only force powerful enough to tear down the iron gate was the very tempest she fled. With no time to reflect, she threw herself at the ground before the gate and covered her face with her arms. The storm pounced on her, slicing at her naked, unprotected body. The gate was giving way, but so too was the flesh being torn from her bones. She looked up toward the courtyard in desperate agony, hoping for some miracle to save her. Inside the keep she could just make out the outline of a figure—a figure of someone she felt she knew. Maggie stretched a bloodied hand toward the woman—just before the glow of the courtyard exploded into a blinding ball of light.

&nbs
p; Maggie jerked awake and the book flew off her lap, landing on the floor of the airplane with a graceless thud. She squinted against the sunrise streaming in through the plane window. Her brow was damp with sweat and her heart was still racing. She glanced over at the man next to her to determine whether she had perhaps cried out in her sleep. Although he was now awake, he did not seem in anyway concerned or alarmed or really even interested in her presence. He also appeared to have had more pleasant dreams than she. Except for one upturned lock of hair behind his left ear, he seemed remarkably put together for someone who had just spent the night sleeping in an airplane seat.

  She leaned forward and picked her book up off the floor. Her still foggy brain was trying to decide whether to shove it back into her bag, or just set it on her lap while she woke up more. The latter won out. She closed her eyes and stretched her back. Sleeping upright was not terribly comfortable and it had been less than eight hours, but she had gotten at least some rest—despite the dream. She could feel her heart slow to a near normal pulse. It jumped again at the stewardess' voice.

  "Good morning!"

  Maggie glared out the corner of her eye at the all-too-perky flight attendant. She didn't always wake up in a good mood and nightmares followed by smiley stewardesses didn't help matters.

  "We should be landing at Heathrow in a little over an hour," the smile explained. "Would you like something to drink? Orange juice, mayb—"

  "Coffee." Maggie rubbed the drying sweat from her temples and put her glasses back on.

  "Okay then. Cream or sug—"

  "Black." She looked groggily at the stewardess. "Thanks."

  The coffee came with a bagel and in a little over an hour, the bagel and coffee having been successfully ingested, Maggie was standing, crouched over, waiting for Mr. 14B to move his well-rested butt into the aisleway so she could exit the plane.