The Cottage

by Michael Phillips

  “Ye’re no Shetlander . . . ye got no right tae be takin’ auld Macgregor’s land an’ home . . . Why didna ye jist leave weel enough alone . . . The chief doesna take kindly tae Americans . . . gae back where ye came fae. Ye’re no welcome here.” She had the feeling that Mrs. MacNeill probably spoke for most of the island.

  She had grown up with whispered comments following her wherever she went, people looking at her with condescending expressions. Doubts and suspicions about her parentage had followed her into adulthood.

  Secrets . . . secrets . . . her whole life was a secret. Innuendos, half-truths, strange glances. For as long as she could remember she had endured a cloud of secrecy hanging over her head about her past and her entire identity. Now the oppression of secretiveness was swirling again—the looks from the villagers, the subdued voices, some island secret about the chief and an American who had caused trouble before her.

  She had done her best to leave the pain of childhood behind. Now all the old fears and insecurities were being stirred up, throwing her into an emotional tailspin that sent her back to those painful school days. This island was just like the insular community of her upbringing. All her adult life she had been trying to break free from it. Suddenly here she was in another small community being swept into undercurrents just like the ones she had spent so many years trying to escape.

  She hated the secrets!

  She had left home years ago to get away from the secretiveness of the Fellowship. She had no desire to be part of yet another community where people talked behind backs and where everyone harbored secrets.

  Why couldn’t people be open and honest and say what they were thinking? At least Mrs. MacNeill spoke her mind, Loni thought. No secrets with a person like her.

  She should just forget about the Shetlands and the inheritance and this Cottage, forget she had ever received a letter postmarked from a solicitor’s office in the Shetlands. She should just go upstairs and pack her suitcase, get in the car out front, drive to Lerwick, and fly home.

  Let the next in line have it.

  8

  A Fisherman Bearing Gifts

  Loni’s thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.

  She opened the door to see a great hulking man with a full crop of black hair, combed down but only partially held in place with some glistening scented substance. His most prominent feature was the girth of his brawny shoulders, which gave way to enormous biceps and a wide barrel chest, though in height he stood an inch or two shorter than Loni. He was wearing what appeared to be work clothes—heavy denim trousers and a thick green wool shirt—clean but probably not his Sunday best . . . unless this was his best. In his hand he clutched a bouquet of half-wilted carnations. She had seen several like it for sale at the market. The skin of his clean-shaven face and thick neck appeared as though they had been scrubbed rather harder than they were accustomed to and shone almost pink.

  Seemingly taken aback at Loni’s height as she opened the door, he quickly recovered himself.

  “Good day tae ye, miss!” he said with an effusive smile. “’Tis a pleasure tae welcome ye tae Whales Reef. These are for yersel’.” He handed Loni the flowers.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That is very kind of you. I seem to be drowning in flowers,” she added, glancing toward the arrangement of chrysanthemums beside the door.

  “I’m Hardy Tulloch,” the man said. Having emptied his huge hand of the flowers, he now extended it toward her.

  Hearing the name, a pang brought Loni’s mind to attention. “Hardy . . . that’s for Hardar?”

  “Aye. Folk on the island call me Hardy. Ye’d be Miss Ford, I take it?”

  “That’s right,” said Loni, nervously shaking his hand. “Come in. I . . . uh, suppose it was time I met you. Mr. MacNaughton in Lerwick told me about you.”

  “Who’s that ye’re meanin’?”

  “Mr. MacNaughton. The solicitor who contacted me about the estate. He indicated that you were next in line for the inheritance after me.”

  She led Hardy inside as she spoke, noticing a faint aroma of fish mingled with the hair tonic following him through the door. Her new visitor glanced about uncertainly as he lumbered across the foyer and through the expansive entryway. It was clear that he was not as familiar with these surroundings as her two previous guests.

  Having now acted the hostess twice, Loni led the way to the kitchen.

  “Would you like tea?” she asked.

  “Aye, if ye dinna mind,” replied Hardy. “I dinna want tae put ye tae any trouble, mum.”

  “No trouble. I just came from the market and have a new supply of oatcakes.” She filled the kettle with water. “I assume you are the chief I’ve been hearing about?”

  A cloud passed over Hardy’s brow. “Dinna say such a thing, mum,” he said. “Meaning nae offense, but oor so-called chief isna worth the name. It would be an insult tae be mistaken for him.”

  At his words, Loni let out a sigh. “Actually, I am relieved to hear you say so. From the little I’ve heard I haven’t been anxious to meet him.”

  “Nae—I’m no chief, though I hope tae be Guizer Jarl o’ Shetland one day.”

  “I’ve never heard of that—what is it?”

  “Somethin’ like a Viking chief, miss, an’ more worthy o’ the honor.”

  “Then I hope you will be,” said Loni. “And I didn’t mean to offend you by thinking you were the chief. It’s just that I had heard that you would be heir . . . you know, if they hadn’t found me, and that the chief doesn’t like Americans. I merely assumed that you and the chief were the same person.”

  “We’re as different as any two blokes can be, miss.”

  “So you don’t hate Americans, I hope?”

  “No fear o’ that, Miss Ford. Ye winna find a more acceptin’ man than me.”

  “And is it true that you would be next in line after me?”

  “Aye, ’tis true, miss. But why ask ye sich a thing?” said Hardy, attempting to sound nonchalant. “Ye’re not thinkin’ o’ no layin’ claim tae what’s rightfully yer ain?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Tulloch. From the beginning I thought that the estate should more rightfully belong to you than me.”

  One of Hardy’s eyebrows arched slightly.

  “Wouldn’t you agree?” added Loni.

  “’Tisna my place tae argue wi’ the law, mum, or what the courts hae decided,” said Hardy.

  “I have also been thinking, even if I am technically the heir,” Loni went on, “that perhaps you and I could come to some arrangement for transferring the estate, or a portion of it, to you, or if not that, find a way for the two of us to work together. I’m not interested in financial gain, you understand. I am simply trying to decide what would be best to do.”

  “I will do whate’er ye wish, miss. I’ll gie ye my support an’ help any way I can. I jist want the best for the poor folk o’ the island, ye ken. ’Tis all I want, whether ye’re the new laird, or mysel’.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” said Loni with a smile.

  She continued with the tea preparations, then set a plate of oatcakes on the table. She and her new acquaintance sat down.

  “Any way I can be o’ service tae ye, mum,” said Hardy as Loni poured him a cup of tea. “Ye only need say the word. An’ if ye need me tae watch o’er yer affairs here when ye’re needin’ tae return tae the States, ye needna worry aboot a thing. I ken the island an’ its folk as weel as any man or woman on Whales Reef. I been here a’ my life, ye ken. Jist tell me what I can do for ye.”

  “Thank you,” said Loni. “That is a generous offer and takes a load off my mind.”

  “’Tis the way it was always done in times past, ye ken—wi’ a factor keepin’ the laird’s affairs in order wi’ the folk on his estate, collectin’ his rents an’ the like.”

  “Oh . . . a factor. Like a business manager.”

  “Aye, jist the same, mum. Ye’ll be too important a lady, I can tell that jist frae lookin’ at
ye, tae be bothered by little things like one o’ the villagers bein’ late wi’ his rent, or a cottage wi’ a leak in its roof. Ye’ll be too important for the likes o’ sich worries. ’Tis what a factor’s for.”

  “Well, it sounds as if a factor is exactly what I need. And you would seem the perfect choice—if I decide to keep the inheritance, of course.”

  “’Tis yer decision, mum. Like I say, whate’er I can do tae help.”

  The conversation did not flow so freely as with the two men Loni had entertained previously. Though clearly on his best behavior, the fisherman seemed uncomfortable in his surroundings. Whenever the conversation lagged, however, a few questions about fishing succeeded in boosting it along for another few minutes. Loni judged it best not to bring up the subject of the inheritance again.

  “It would be an honor tae take ye oot in my boat,” said Hardy enthusiastically as he downed the remaining half cup of his tea in a single swallow. “Ye could see hoo the men o’ Whales Reef earn their livin’. Though ye’d had tae wear somethin’ less posh, ye ken. The fishin’s a wet an’ dirty business.”

  Loni laughed. “I would definitely try to dress accordingly!”

  “So do ye want tae try it then, mum?”

  “I’m not much of a sailor. What if I get seasick?”

  “I’ll take personal care o’ ye, mum. Dinna ye worry. I’d keep a steady rudder an’ no take ye oot unless the seas are calm. We canna hae any harm come tae the most important lassie on the island.”

  “Well, I will think about it,” laughed Loni again. “It would certainly be a new experience.”

  “In the meantime, mum,” said Hardy, rising from the table, “my crew’s waitin’ for me doon at the harbor.”

  “You’re going fishing this afternoon?”

  “Aye. We’re bound up til the waters off the coast o’ Unst. We’ll be oot most o’ the night. If ye’d join us, I’d take ye for a wee sail an’ bring ye back safe an’ sound afore we set off for the deep water.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “Weel then, I need tae be sayin’ good day tae ye, miss. But if ye’d do me the honor o’ haein’ supper wi’ me when I return, I’d like tae treat ye tae a catch o’ my ain fish tomorrow night.”

  “Won’t you be too tired after a night of fishing?”

  “I’ll git cleaned up an’ hae a wee nappie first. Dinna ye worry aboot me, miss. It would gie us the chance tae talk more, like ye say, aboot hoo the two o’ us can work together for the good o’ the people o’ the island.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tulloch. That sounds delightful. I accept your invitation.”

  “Then I’ll keep the best cod or haddock for oor supper.”

  “I will look forward to it. Would you prefer to come here?”

  “That is very kind o’ ye, miss. It might be more pleasant for ye at that. My bit hoosie is a mite fishy, if ye ken my meanin’. If ye’d care tae hae me, I’d be pleased tae bring oor supper.”

  “When should I expect you?”

  “Right aroun’ six, mum.”

  “I will look for you then.”

  “That sounds right fine.”

  Loni rose and they walked slowly to the door.

  “Are ye sure ye winna come oot wi’ us today?” asked Hardy. “I’d be pleased tae wait for ye.”

  “To be honest, I don’t have any grubbies, as we call work clothes,” said Loni. “And I have to say that the idea of going out on a fishing boat still frightens me a little.”

  “Naethin’ tae worry aboot, mum. I’ll let ye come aboard the Hardy Fire while she’s still moored tae the harbor wall.”

  “Now that I can do!” laughed Loni. “Maybe in another day or so I will be ready to try it. And thank you again for the flowers.”

  9

  Two Thoughtful Men

  About the same time as Hardy was walking into the village market for his purchase of carnations, his cousin set out from the Auld Hoose, faithful sheepdog bounding ahead of him. With his visit to the American Miss Ford fresh in his mind, David Tulloch could not erase from his mind the revelation that Hardy was considered next in line for the inheritance. Jason MacNaughton had not divulged even to him that the probate inquiry had progressed so far in Hardy’s favor.

  Walking up the gradually increasing slope of the Muckle Hill in the north center of the island a while later, he pushed his reflections aside as he recognized a familiar figure ahead. He quickened his pace.

  “Reverend Yates!” he called as he drew near.

  The minister turned and greeted David with a smile.

  “Hello, David,” he said. “I did not expect to find anyone else out on these wild moors.”

  “Nor I,” laughed David. “But they are hardly so wild—I am usually out with my sheep on most days. I rarely meet anyone but the gamekeeper. I must say it is a surprise running into you.”

  “I admit, I am not a great walker,” rejoined Yates. “However, I have had a number of, shall we say, consequential matters on my mind of late, including an important decision looming on my personal horizon. I felt the need for a solitary walk.”

  “Well, you couldn’t do better than the Muckle Hill. There is something about high places that clears the brain and offers a broader perspective. It is one of my favorite places on the island. Have you not been here before?”

  “A time or two, though not often.”

  The two men continued to chat as they made their way up the steepening slope, David’s dog running ahead and behind and circling them before running off again with boundless energy.

  “Tell me about the monument,” said Yates, pointing to the slab of high stone rising out of the earth several hundred yards ahead of them.

  “The Muckle Stane—not much to tell. It is reportedly of ancient date, Pictish or druidic in origin, though some say the Vikings erected it.”

  “And the symbols and inscriptions?”

  “Their meanings have been lost to time. I tend to read into it what I want to.”

  “A universal human trait,” said Yates. “Don’t we all interpret meanings and events, not to mention history, people, and ourselves, according to our own experiences and biases?”

  David nodded. “An apt observation. Yes, we do exactly that. At least I for one would plead guilty.”

  “So you have aroused my curiosity. What do you read into the stone?”

  “I opened myself up for that,” said David with a smile.

  “You did indeed,” laughed Yates.

  “Actually, its meaning comes not so much from what I read into the inscriptions on the stone, but that it reminds me of the past, of the heritage left us by our ancestors, and of the charge upon my shoulders as chief to do my best for our people. I draw from the stone the reminder of the human quest to know our Creator. I realize I am probably reading more into it than may have been the reality. But that is what the stone means to me. Thus I often come here to pray.”

  “A noble meaning to give it, I must say. In my opinion, we never go wrong by investing life with high and eternal significance. If we err, at least we do so on God’s side of the thing rather than man’s—looking for higher meanings rather than lower.”

  “A profound insight,” agreed David. “I will remember what you say.”

  They reached the peak of the hill and stood a moment gazing at the stone.

  “So what kinds of things does the stone inspire you to pray?” asked Yates. “I ask because my present predicament, as you allude to, involves how best to serve the people of Whales Reef. I suppose in my own way I am in a similar position to yours, feeling the responsibility of my position to do my best for them. I am not sure I am doing so effectively. There are a few precious souls who seem to respond to my preaching, though mostly I feel that I am still a stranger here even after three years. I would like to discuss the matter with you in more depth if the opportunity arises.”

  “I will look forward to that.”

  “Today, however, I would very much like to know how you pe
rceive your role. Perhaps that is the same as asking what you pray.”

  David took in the words seriously. He led them to a large, flat stone. The two sat down, and the dog, ready for a rest, settled at their feet.

  “My father brought me here often as a boy,” he began thoughtfully. “From him I learned what is called the Chief’s Prayer.”

  “I would like to hear it.”

  David remained thoughtful a minute. “I pray,” he said at length, “that the people would know God as I tend to think people of old were striving to know Him and reach toward Him with their obelisks and monuments. Essentially I pray that God would keep and protect the people of the island in His care and love and come to know Him as their Father, as Jesus knew Him. And I pray that I would be His faithful and obedient son.”

  It grew quiet for some time.

  “A beautiful prayer,” said Yates, nodding. “Now I know why I was led out onto the moor this afternoon—I needed to hear those words. It will help me focus my own thoughts about what I am to do.”

  “It would seem we are both a bit pensive today,” said David. “I will leave you to your prayers. May God give you wisdom.”

  “And you, David. I am glad we ran into one another. I hope we have the chance to visit again soon.”

  10

  An Observer

  As the two men parted, David glanced southward and saw Hardy approaching the Cottage in the distance, flowers in hand.

  In spite of the prayer he and the minister had just been discussing, the sight sent the young chief into an emotional tailspin. He thought he had resolved his inner conflicts, wrestled with his demon-angel, and placed both past and future into God’s care. It became apparent that he had not laid the matter of the inheritance and his own future to rest as thoroughly as he had assumed.

  It was on a day just like this a year ago, having completed a long and peaceful walk out on the moors of this beloved island, that he had discovered the dead body of the cousin he called his uncle Macgregor, lying cold in his bed in the Cottage.