“Lass!” rang out a familiar voice behind her.
Jamie spun around as if she had been caught in some evil deed. Her face flushed.
“Gran’daddy,” she said, her voice trembling. “Ye . . . ye should be in bed.”
“I’m warmed noo, too,” Finlay replied. “But I was worryin’ fer ye.”
“I—I came lookin’ fer blankets.”
“Aye, but ye found somethin’ else.”
There was no anger in her grandfather’s voice, and Jamie relaxed. She reached back into the trunk and lifted out the book.
“Was this my papa’s?” she asked.
“It was with yer things when ye came t’ me,” he answered.
“Can ye read t’ me what’s written here?”
She held the book out to him, open to the handwritten message.
Finlay made no move to take it. After a long, tense moment, he spoke. “Jamie, yer papa is gone noo. ’Tis best fer ye t’ ferget. ’Tis nae use fer ye t’ try t’ remember. ’Twill only bring ye pain. Please, lass, ye maun try t’ trust me.”
“But Gran’daddy, hoo can it bring me pain when forgettin’ hurts too? I loved him, Gran’daddy. It jist wouldna be doin’ right by him t’ forget him.”
“Do ye believe that he wanted only the best fer ye?”
Jamie nodded, and Finlay continued.
“Then believe me, child, that t’ forget is the best fer ye, an’ would noo be what he would hae wanted.”
“No!” Jamie cried. “That canna be! What can be wrong wi’ rememberin’? All I’m askin’ is fer ye t’ show me how t’ read these words.”
Hardly realizing that he was in danger of making the same mistake with his granddaughter that had so grieved him with his own son, and looking suddenly weak and old, Finlay replied, “I canna.”
“I know ye hate him!” Jamie shouted in her despair and frustration. “But I willna. I loved him, no matter what ye say!”
With the words she dropped the book into the trunk and ran past him out into the rain.
“Jamie—lass!” Finlay called after her. But she was already gone out of sight.
9
The Lass of the Mountain
The pounding rain washed over Jamie as if it were trying to clean away her anger and confusion and pain. But she was hardly aware of the storm despite the crackling thunder or the dazzling flashes of lightning.
From the cottage she ran north, taking a path even the sheep could not tread to its end. Steep and narrow, it led upward—always upward. She had set her sights on the very crown of Donachie. It was there she hoped to get as far away from the source of her trouble as possible, or perhaps get closer to the answer.
The rocks were slippery, but her bare feet knew them well and traversed them without a thought of their imminent treachery. She not only knew this country, this path, these rocks, she understood them. In a way, they had been kind to her. They had opened up to her and let her love them, and in return had been a comfort to her. She had roamed every inch of this mountain at one time or another. But she had always taken the mountain for granted because, first and foremost, she had her grandfather. Suddenly now it seemed Donachie was all she knew and understood. But was it enough?
Why did this have to happen? She wanted only to love the mountain and her grandfather and have no other cares in the world. But she could not deny the feelings stirring within her. And more than anything, she could not deny her father! Why he had this day suddenly come to life, as from the very grave, she didn’t know. Something inside her told her he had departed this world leaving something unfinished. And now the path lay before her, his daughter.
But what was it? What did she have to do?
The path ahead of Jamie began to disintegrate until it was no path at all. Most climbers did not go beyond this point, but Jamie persisted stubbornly toward her goal—ever higher. She knew the way. Protruding rocks and thorny overgrowth did not daunt her. The rain was coming down in sheets, and the higher she climbed the greater became its angle against her, for she was ascending into the very heart of the wind. The lightning and thunder had now abated and given way to the full outpouring from the black clouds, the very source of all the trouble.
After an hour, her clothing tight against her skin, her soaked hair pasted against her uncovered head, Jamie emerged upon a broad plateau from which she could go no higher. Not a tree, not a single piece of scrubby brown heather was to be seen—only granite. This was the top of Jamie’s world!
She climbed onto her favorite boulder, fighting the fierce wind to keep her balance. When the skies were clear, she could from this vantage point see many, many miles in every direction. It had been said that one with exceptional eyesight could see the ocean in the distance, but Jamie could not. And such days were rare indeed. For about Donachie, as though it were a Scottish Sinai, there always seemed to hang a shroud of mist, obscuring its heights from observers below.
Here, at the very pinnacle of her world, the Mount Sinai of her own spirit, it seemed natural to pray. She had come here many times before to think, to meditate, to talk to God. But now her prayers all seemed to end in agonizing questions that had no answers.
Where was the faith she had learned from her grandfather? Where was the peace the Book told her she should have?
Was it true, then? Would she in the end have to choose between her father and her grandfather?
Why should such a choice have to be made?
Why, why, why?
“Why?” Jamie shouted as loud as she could, but the echo was muted in the blast of the storm. The word seemed visibly to crumble into nothingness, like the vague emptiness of her soul.
A fierce howl of wind whipped itself upon the girl who dared to challenge the power of the elements at the height of their madness. A crackle of thunder followed away eastward where the storm was heading into the depths of the Cairngorm highlands.
Are there no answers to the questions which have suddenly come to haunt me? Jamie wondered.
If there were answers, would she have to leave Donachie to find them?
Leave?
“Dear God, I cud ne’er leave this place,” she said aloud. “I couldna leave my ain gran’daddy. I love him too much, an’ I need him too. Ah, it would hurt him fer me t’ leave.”
Her own father had left Donachie. Perhaps he had been to the top of the mountain, too, and stood on this very spot. Perhaps he had seen the sea, and it had called him away from this, his home, called him to the better life he sought but never found.
But his leaving had grieved his father. Had it even made him hate his own son? She couldn’t bear for him ever to feel that way toward her!
Yet she still had to know what was out there for her to see, to discover, to learn. Was she destined to try to fulfill her father’s dream?
Dear Lord, what would ye hae me t’ do?
But she heard no answer. The only sound all around her was the pounding rain and the ferocious wind trying to blow her off the top of this wild and untamed mountain.
Two hours later Jamie returned to the old cottage once more. Her emotions had settled, as had the fury of the storm. She was now left with just a hollow feeling inside and a bit of apprehension about facing her grandfather again.
Slowly she pulled the latch of the door and slipped inside. The warmth that met her felt comfortable on her wind-reddened face. Finlay sat at the table, his open Bible before him. He looked up, and she smiled awkwardly as if to reassure him that the angry words had been left outside.
“Ye’re wet clean through,” he said.
“Aye,” she replied.
She removed her coat and hung it on a hook near the fire, and went to her own corner and changed her clothes. She slipped on the clothes she had worn that very morning, now dry. What a long time ago it seemed when she had gone out in search of her grandfather before the storm!
Jamie was thankful for the diversion of changing her clothes. It gave her and her grandfather the opportunity to get used to
one another’s presence once again without the awkwardness of stumbling over words. When she came back out into the big room, she laid her wet things about the fires and set about making supper.
It was Finlay who broke the long silence.
“Will ye nae be speakin’ t’ me onymore, lass?” he asked.
“Ye maunna think that, Gran’daddy,” she answered, her voice choked with emotion. “I’m sorry.”
“I been tryin’ t’ unnerstan’ hoo ye’re feelin’,” he went on. “I been prayin’ that I would learn an’ that ye’d be patient wi’ me.”
“Oh, I will, Gran’daddy!” she exclaimed, “I will.” She ran to him, putting her arms round his shoulders and kissing his wrinkled cheek. Renewed tears streamed down her face and she felt the wet from Finlay’s own tears on her lips. “An’ ye maun be patient wi’ me!”
“Sit ye doon, here, lass,” he said, pulling the other chair up next to his. “I’ll try t’ teach ye some o’ the words in the Book.”
Jamie sat down with a radiant smile on her face. Though it was the words in the other book in the trunk that she really wanted to read, this would be a start.
“I canna keep ye frae learnin’ the truth fer yersel’ fere’er,” he said. “An’ jist maybe, lass, if ye learn these words, ’twill help ye t’ unnerstan’ more aboot yer ain father. An’ help ye t’ see why I tried t’ protect ye so.”
“Thank ye, Gran’daddy! I’ll try my hardest t’ understand.”
As Jamie began her first lesson, she did not allow all the questions that had plagued her on the mountaintop to crowd out the happiness she felt at that moment. This was a start! Perhaps this was the beginning of the answer to everything else. Her relationship with her beloved grandfather restored, perhaps the other anxieties would also soon begin to dispel.
But for a girl of seventeen, soon does not carry the same meaning as it does for the Master of all Time. For her questions to be answered, for her vision to extend to the sea, young Jamie MacLeod had many more Donachies yet to climb.
10
Another Farewell
It was autumn again.
This was not a season she loved, for winter always followed close behind, forcing her indoors. Without being able to roam freely on the mountain, Jamie could never feel altogether whole.
But this year the season contained a new and exciting element: longer hours indoors meant more time for her lessons. Jamie proved a quick learner, and the only thing hampering her progress was the fact that old Finlay was no teacher. He tried his best, but the process was slow. And Finlay could perhaps be forgiven if this did not grieve him as much as it did Jamie. He knew what the end of his teaching would bring. In his brittle old bones, he knew that Jamie would eventually have to leave Donachie.
Jamie herself never faced the inevitable squarely. Though there were times her gaze turned toward the distant horizon and the questions returned, her grandfather’s home was the very core of life’s meaning, and she never asked herself what would become of her once he was gone. However, no one could have failed to note how her face brightened on the day when the factor from Aviemere came up the mountain.
“Welcome t’ ye, Mr. Ellice,” said Finlay, as the visitor entered the cottage.
“Thank you, Finlay,” replied the factor. “And that is always what I feel when I come here.”
George Ellice was of middle-age, with thin, graying hair. Slight of frame and quiet of personality, he stood in direct contrast to his predecessor, Frederick Lundie, whom he had replaced ten years earlier.
“My gran’daughter’ll fix some tea fer us, an’ ye can bide a wee. ’Tis a mighty long walk up the mountain frae the estate.”
“Aye, it is,” agreed Ellice. “But you know I love making the walk and always look forward to my visits.”
“’Tis the only reason I let ye do it fer me.”
Ellice laughed. “That I know.”
“But I’m thinkin’,” Finlay continued, “that next year I’ll be sendin’ my gran’daughter doon t’ min’ my business. She’ll be comin’ o’ age noo, ye ken.”
Ellice smiled warmly at Jamie. “Yes, she is. And so I suppose I’ll have to find another excuse to come up your mountain.”
“Ye’ll be needin’ nae excuse; ye’re welcome onytime.”
Jamie could hardly concentrate on serving the men tea. All she could think to do was to throw her arms around her dear old grandfather. And she could not keep the broad smile off her face. Finlay saw it, and knew what his words had meant to this granddaughter he had finally come to trust, even more than he had his own son.
Jamie knew Finlay’s words were an act of faith on his part. It meant that evenings poring over the old black Bible were not wasted. She must be achieving the understanding he wanted for her. And it meant, too, that the time could not be far away when he would tell her about her father, and let her read the book tucked away in the trunk, which had not been touched since that rainy day several months before.
The days now passed swiftly and joyfully for Jamie. Hardly aware of the chill, the intermittent rains, and the heavy skies, she looked forward more than ever to each moment spent with her grandfather at the table. Though he said little, she felt her progress must be pleasing to him. In later years she would never forget these evenings in the warm cottage, with the wind whistling in a frenzy outside, as she sat listening to her grandfather’s voice and trying to understand the simple gems of wisdom he offered as he taught her to read and comprehend the book opened on the table in front of them.
“Do ye ken what the Maister said aboot sheep an’ shepherds, Jamie?” he asked one evening.
“No, Gran’daddy. Ye never read me that.”
“Aye. We’v’ read it, child. ’Tis one o’ my favorite passages. It’s like He’s talking jist t’ the likes o’ us that tend His sheep. But we haena read it fer some time noo. But tonight, I want fer ye t’ try’t yersel’.”
He turned the big Bible to the tenth chapter of St. John.
Pointing to the page, he said, “There ye be. Try’t Jamie.”
“The—”
“Thief.”
“The thief comesna for ocht but tae—steal—an fell—an des—”
“Destroy—ye’re doin’ fine, child!”
“Oh, Gran’daddy, couldna ye read it all t’ me, so I cud hear all aboot the sheep in yer ain voice? I’d so like t’ hear ye read it all t’ me!”
Needing no further encouragement, the old man pulled the book close, and began the beloved passage again.
“The thief comesna for ocht but tae steal an fell an destroy: I am come at they may hae life—ay, an rowth, an mair, o it! I am the guid shepherd. The guid shepherd lays doun his life for the sheep. The hireman, at is nae shepherd, an isna aucht the sheep himsel, forleits the sheep, whaniver he sees the wouf comin, an scours awa, laein the wouf tae herrie an skail the hirsel. He rins awa, because he is a fee’d man, an cares nocht for the sheep. I am the guid shepherd; I ken my sheep, an my sheep kens me, een as the Faither kens me, and I ken the Faither; an I am tae lay doun my life for the sheep. But I hae ither sheep, forbye thir, at belangsna this fauld, at I maun bring in, tae. They will tent my caa, an syne there will be au hirsel, an ae shepherd.”1
He closed the book and the only sound was the low burning fire and the wind outside.
“Ne’re forget, Jamie, my bairn,” the old man said at length, “that Jesus is yer shepherd, jist like we are t’ the sheep. When we get stuck on a rock an’ can’t fin’ oor way an’ can’t get doon, He’s the shepherd that saves us. Ye’ll remember that, won’t ye, Jamie?”
“Aye, Gran’daddy,” she replied softly, “I’ll remember.”
The next morning Jamie awoke and was surprised to find Finlay still asleep. Even in winter such a thing was highly uncharacteristic. And when he did wake some time later, his movements appeared to Jamie slower and his speech imperceptibly dulled. She said nothing, only served him with the greater tenderness. For the rest of the week he seemed tire
d and scarcely left the cottage. When evening came, he was too weary to read and they had no lessons.
Then came a morning which dawned particularly chill and damp. Winter had come and was everywhere! Icicles hung from all the eaves of the cottage and the ground was frozen as hard as iron. Finlay was up at dawn, and when Jamie rose she could immediately see that a great change had come upon him. He was restless and fidgety. He had already been outside twice, walking across the yard, looking this way and that, standing for moments facing the north face of Donachie, breathing deeply with nostrils distended, as if waiting some sign from the high country above him. Then he would turn again into the cottage to continue his ministration to the morning fire, only to drop it and again walk out into the cold, this time focusing his attention in the other direction. To Jamie’s questions he returned odd and evasive answers—still restless, anxious, waiting as if for something at hand. After breakfast he began to dress in his finest set of clothes, and no amount of exhortation on the part of Jamie could dissuade him, nor could she make the least sense of his explanations. He had someplace to go, he said, but where he would not say.
Thus it went for some time as he all the while grew more agitated. He ate little, despite Jamie’s urgings.
“Too late fer food, my bairn,” he said. “Time t’ be goin’ t’ the high pasture.”
“Ye’ll do no such thing, Gran’daddy!”
“’Tis time, child . . . ’tis time. I maun go!”
“Ye’re stayin’ right here, Gran’daddy. I’ll take the sheep oot today—an’ not t’ the high pasture. Today’s nae day fer that!”
“I maun go!” insisted the old man. “’Tis time, I tell ye! I can smell it in the air. ’Tis time. It’s comin’.”
Jamie MacLeod Page 7
