Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

  “Then gradually as I walked I became aware that the perfume was coming from the faint sound of music in the distance. I know music has no more fragrance than heather. But in a dream all your senses mix together. And in mine as the music filled my head, so, too, did a fragrance of peace and healing and warmth. I was no longer cold…and the music made whatever I had been afraid of disappear. I kept walking, but instead of trying to escape the fear behind me, I was trying to get closer to the music. I was barefoot I think. I was walking through fields of heather. But instead of scratchy prickles, it was cushiony and soft, like fluffs of cotton beneath my feet. Maybe I was walking on clouds of heather and that’s why it was so soft. Maybe I was dead and in heaven and having a vision—”

  Alicia stopped and turned her head toward me.

  “Do you think I was dead, Mrs. Reidhaven?” she asked in a childlike voice that contained no hint of anxiety. “I feel very strange, as if something that has been inside me for a very long time, for years and years, is gone. I feel different than I ever felt before.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know…I cannot describe it. I think it feels good. But I cannot be quite sure—it is too new.”

  “I do not think you were dead, Alicia,” I said. “I have been with you for some time, and you did not look dead. You were cold, but breathing.”

  “Well, no matter…Maybe I was half dead, if that is possible. Wherever I was, I kept walking on the fluffy heather clouds, and the music gradually became louder and louder. Then I came over the top of a hill and suddenly saw spread out in front of me beyond a little glen a huge orchestra on one side of the opposite slope. There were so many instruments that they extended up the slopes of a great hillside as far as it was possible to see. There must have been a thousand or more…maybe ten thousand. Never could such an orchestra be imagined! And opposite them was a vast choir, just as huge. They were all playing and singing together the most beautiful song that anyone has ever heard. It was like a song that could only have been composed in heaven. No one but the angels, or maybe God himself, could think up such a wonderful song. Maybe that’s why I thought I was dead. And though there were so many instruments and people, the music was soft and resonant, full to overflowing with something different than loudness…It was full with quiet resonance. It was music that went into me through my heart, not my ears.

  “At the very top of the hill stood the conductor of the vast throng, conducting softly, gently, with tiny movements. To the conductor’s right sat the largest section of instruments of all—a hundred harps of every conceivable size and shape and color and kind of wood. There were harps as huge as buildings and tiny harps no larger than a violin. Some were tall and thin, some wide and stout…black, white, natural wood of all shades of brown and tan. There might have been two hundred…or a thousand harps; from where I stood I could not tell. And over the whole orchestra they spread their lovely tones of peace. Now that I remember it, I think the perfume of the music was coming from the harps, each of the harps a different flower in a vast, fragrant music-garden.

  “I stopped and stood listening…just listening. No, it wasn’t listening, exactly, because it would all have been no different even if I had been deaf. I would have heard the music just the same. I stood absorbing the music, with all my senses absorbing the sight and sound and magical perfume of the music. As I did, I felt life and strength welling up inside me. I felt strong and happy and free and full of peace.

  “As I stood, I saw the conductor step down and walk down the hill between the orchestra to the right and the choir to the left. The music continued as she descended and gradually came toward me, and then I saw that the conductor was a woman. Or perhaps a girl…or an old lady…I could not tell which. Age meant no more there than music you could smell and heather that felt like clouds of cotton beneath the feet. Everything was different there.

  “She came toward me. A peaceful, knowing smile was on her face as if she knew me and had gathered the orchestra and choir and composed this majestic symphony all around us just for me, because she had been expecting me. I seemed to recognize her faintly, though I cannot be sure.

  “She approached with the most radiant expression, as if light itself were pouring forth out of her face.

  “‘The song is for you,’ she said. ‘I made it to send away your fears, so that you could be free from the past, and be whole.’ She stooped down and plucked a sprig of heather from one of the plants at our feet.

  “‘You are loosed from fear of the past,’ she said. ‘If the voice that once enslaved you returns, remember the healing and strength-​​giving perfume. And say whenever fear assaults you: “God’s light is the fragrance of a musical throng, To banish evil on winds of the heather song.’”

  “She handed me the heather, then turned and began walking back to her orchestra, then lifted her arms toward them. As she did, I noticed two protrusions on her back, just below the shoulder blades.

  “‘Wait,’ I said after her. She paused and looked back.

  “‘What are those strange growths on your back?’ I asked.

  “She gave a musical little laugh. ‘Those are my wings,’ she said. ‘They are not very big yet, but they will continue to grow the longer I am here. I am becoming an angel, you see…but it takes a long time.’

  “‘Will I remember the song?’ I asked.

  “‘Some songs are like sunsets,’ she replied. ‘They are meant to get inside you just as they are, for what they are. They are meant to accomplish that for which God sent them, not to be saved except in the memory of quiet gratitude of God’s peace. If the fragrant song of the heather fades like a dying sunset, give thanks that you have partaken of its wonder. Do not mourn its passing.’

  “She turned and again walked away. Again she lifted her arms in a triumphant gesture. The music suddenly changed, and now for the first time increased greatly in volume and began a magnificent climax. Somehow I knew that it was because a battle had been waged and a victory won.

  “Then I noticed that the conductor-lady had red hair. But I had no time to ponder it, for the next moment the great climax of the orchestra faded and all that was left was the sound of a single harp, and it began to wake me…and the music from the one harp was coming from somewhere else, faintly…very faintly, as a voice from afar. It was a voice I recognized, a kind voice, a voice of goodness, not the voice from before that had filled me with fear. And words came with the music of the one harp, and they were saying, Whatever you find noble, lovely, kind, and pure, Think on these things, and fear and heartache cure.

  “The words made me happy and filled me with contentment. And something left me that had been inside me for a long time. It was fear, I think. And I was at peace.

  “And my waking continued…and when I opened my eyes there you were beside my bed, with your own harp. Was it your music I heard all the time, Mrs. Reidhaven?”

  “I don’t know, Alicia,” I replied in a husky voice, blinking hard. “Maybe some of mine, and…maybe someone else’s mingled in with it. But don’t you think I should be Marie to you again, without the Mrs.? We have been very good friends, remember.”

  Alicia smiled. “I am growing sleepy again,” she said, with a look of happy contentment such as I think I had never seen.

  “Would you like me to leave so you can have a little nap?” I asked, dabbing at my eyes.

  “I think so, yes…Thank you, Marie.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Music and the Word

  Through many dangers, toils and snares,

  We have already come.

  ’Twas grace that brought us safe thus far

  And grace will lead us home.

  —John Newton, “Amazing Grace”

  As I left Alicia’s room I had to stop in the corridor in a positive gush of tears. The heavenly vision, and even the part in it my own music had played, was so breathtakingly wonderful, I could do nothing but weep in wonder.

  Five minutes later, as I recov
ered my emotions, I was surprised to find Alasdair and Ranald in the sitting room before a blazing fire, engaged in earnest conversation. Ranald’s hair was still a little wet, but otherwise he appeared comfortable and dry in a shirt, pair of trousers, and slippers I assumed to be Nicholls’s, since I had never seen them before.

  “Hoo is the lassie?” Ranald asked, looking up as I walked in.

  “She is warming up and sleeping comfortably,” I replied, sitting down beside Alasdair. “She woke up and saw me and smiled and seems herself again. She has no memory of being at Findlater.”

  “The duke’s been tellin’ me mair aboot Olivia an’ her incantations an’ sich like as a lassie. The thing’s mair serious nor I kennt gien it gangs back intil the generations. We maun be dealin’ wi’ mair entrenched strongholds than I kennt. ’Tis serious business, that, when it gets intil the generations.”

  “The generations?” I said slowly. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “The root system o’ a family’s past. Nane o’ us comes intil life as an athegither blank slate, ye ken. We are products o’ the generations wha came afore us, wi’ a’ the traits an’ quirks an’ characteristics an’ speeritual sensitivities that hae been bred intil oor family lines for baith guid an’ ill. Tendencies, ye might call them. Proclivities tae do an’ think an’ act in certain ways. Scientists likely hae scientific ways o’ explainin’ parts o’ it wi’ genes an’ the like. But I wud gie e’en mair credence tae the speeritual tendencies oor ancestors planted in the soil o’ oor past. That doesna mean a body will follow those tendencies, because speeritually, in a manner o’ speakin’, we are a’ blank slates wi’ wills an’ temperaments an’ personalities o’ oor ain that we make choices wi’. Nae ither man nor woman’s responsible for those choices an’ what we make o’ that will an’ personality than jist oorsel’s. But there’s forces at wark, too, urgin’ noo this way, pushin’ noo in that direction, goadin’ us here an’ there. Some o’ those forces an’ urgin’s are inducin’ and encouragin’ us toward the licht; it may be fae some gran’mither or grit-gran’father wha spent his or her life on their knees prayin’ for their posterity an’ infusin’ the line o’ the generations wi’ truth an’ righteousness. The life o’ sich a ones feeds the soil o’ that family wi’ ongoin’ nutrients o’ goodness that bears God’s fruit for mony generations after them. But there’s ither forces at wark as weel, unseen it may be, dark forces pushin’ an’ coaxin’ toward the ill-one, whisperin’ lies an’ selfishnesses, inflamin’ pride an’ arrogance an’ anger from anither grit-grit-gran’father or ’mither wha fed only the selfish side o’ their nature, or may hae dabbled in the occult, or may hae been a conduit an’ open door intil the generations for the warkin’ o’ some demon or anither—a demon o’ gluttony or avarice or greed or revenge or po’er or envy or complaint or mammon. An’ ilka ane o’ these forces from those that hae come afore, a’ mixed up an’ warkin’ t’gither, are what I call the generations.”

  “You’re not saying we can’t help what we do?”

  “Nae, nae. We’re gi’en oor ain wills an’ lives an’ circumstances an’ temperaments an’ the particular soil o’ oor ain life’s conditions tae make the best o’ hoo we’re made an’ what life brings oor way, an’ through it a’ tae follow the promtin’s toward righteousness, an’ tae rebuke an’ oppose an’ resist wi’ a’ the strength o’ oor higher natures whate’er may urge us agin’ it, an’ whate’er may whisper tae us tae follow the lower path whaur self is king. Doesna it gie ye a guid feelin’ that some ancestor o’ yers may hae prayed for ye an’ asked the Speerit o’ the Lord tae gie ye strength jist whan ye need it?”

  “Do you really believe that a prayer prayed a hundred years ago, or even ten years ago, could be answered in my life…now…today?” I asked.

  “Oh, aye! Wi’ oot a doobt, lass,” replied Ranald enthusiastically. “Wi’ oot a doobt! The arrows o’ prayer we launch upward intil the regions o’ God’s great hert are nae boond by time. Prayers that may hae gane intil God’s ear a hundred years syne may be sent back tae earth as his answers in yer ain lifetime jist when ye maist sorely need them. My daddy’s faithfulness an’ his daddy’s afore him, an’ my dear mum, wha I can still see on her knees in my memory—I ken they prayed hours an’ hours for me. Those prayers didna die oot an’ become naethin’ jist because they’re noo gang tae be wi’ him that made them. Those prayers are still in God’s hert. An’ I believe he’s aye luikin’ ilka day for chances tae answer them. An’ I feel strength fae the generations that hae come afore me, an’ no’ a day gaes by that I’m no’ filled wi’ gratitude for them, an’ that I dinna thank God for the life that’s in me on account o’ them.”

  “What does this all have to do with Alicia?” I asked.

  “’Tis through the generations that strongholds form,” answered Ranald. “Childish mischief may aye cause great ill. But it doesna become a stronghold o’ evil till it’s passed on fae ane generation till the naist. Then the danger is great o’ the thing sendin’ doon roots that are hard tae dislodge, an’ becomin’ perpetuated on an’ on tae the third an’ fourth generations like the Buik says, an’ its evil spreadin’ oot an’ preventin’ hundreds an’ thousands frae gettin’ a’ the licht o’ God’s life inside them.”

  As I listened, my thoughts went back to my conversations with Ranald earlier in his cottage.

  “When you spoke, or prayed…or whatever it was you did when you said you broke the curse against your house—what language was that?”

  “The auld Gaelic, lass,” replied Ranald.

  “What was it you said?”

  “’Twas an angry ootburst, I admit. I haup it didna frighten ye, lass. But the de’il angers me when he twists up folk tae believin’ his lees. What I said was, ‘Ye lying tongue o’ the de’il.’ ”

  “And the rest, when you said, I think it was something like, ‘I break the curse against my house and send it back to the fires of hell’—was that a prayer?”

  “Nae in so many words. But when ye’re conductin’ the Almighty’s business in sich realms, ’tisna always easy tae tell ane kin’ o’ speakin’ till him fae anither. In a manner o’ speikin’, I was speikin’ for the Lord, no’ exactly prayin’ till him, an’ takin’ his authority tae break the curse in its tracks. But though I may hae broken’t for yersel’ an’ me, it didna break it in the lass Alicia’s mind. ’Twas still haudin’ her in its grip, an’ I haena doobt that’s what sent her oot intil the storm that way, for they say, ye ken, that the de’il’s the prince o’ the po’er o’ the air, an’ gien e’er he was makin’ mischief wi’ God’s wind an’ rain, ’twas today oot at Findlater. I was feared we wud lose the lass.”

  “But why didn’t what you said help Alicia? It almost seemed to make it worse.”

  “It may hae dune jist that, lass,” sighed Ranald. “Sometimes when ye stir up a sleepin’ nest o’ the de’il’s handiwork, where he’s had a free hand for a lang time, an’ ye stir up his demons, they’re like wasps an’ they dinna like it, an’ they fight back ’cause they ken their end is nigh. So wi’ the brak’n came loosin’s in the speeritual realm that we may no’ hae anticipated. They were fightin’ tae keep control o’ what they kennt they were aboot tae lose. ’Tis a dangerous time o’ speeritual warfare when the forces o’ evil are unleashed. An’ the puir lassie hersel’ wasna yet ready tae join in the battle. She wasna yet wantin’ tae break the curse. Fear o’t still held her in its grip. A body’s got tae want tae be rid o’ the de’il’s mischief in their life afore they can come agin’ him wi’ po’er.”

  “You said the curse of fear ?” I said.

  “Aye. Wasna really a curse agin’ me that Olivia had spoken, but a curse o’ fear in the hearts o’ those wha believed it. A curse spoke as Olivia spoke it, in God’s realm, comes back onto the heids o’ those that spoke it, an’ on them that believed it. Her words couldna harm me. But luik at the misery they’ve brought Olivia hersel’ an’ the likes o’ Alicia, puir lass. The cu
rse was the fear it put intil her, wasna onything aboot me.”

  “Just now, as I sat beside her bedside and played my harp, when she woke up, something had changed. She was calm, at peace…as gentle as a child. She said she felt fear leaving her.”

  “I’m aye happy tae hear it!” exclaimed Ranald.

  “Why the change, do you think, Marie?” asked Alasdair.

  I told them about Alicia’s dream. By the end of it I was crying again.

  “That is absolutely remarkable,” said Alasdair. He was also close to tears.

  “There’s mony a way tae break the de’il’s po’er,” said Ranald. “Sounds like in this case as gien yer music an’ the words o’ the Buik must hae gotten intil her an’ made her want tae break free hersel’.”

  “What words from the Book?” asked Alasdair.

  “In her dream, she turned the words from Philippians 4:8 intil a rhyme. It must hae been her min’ bringin’ Olivia’s tactic o’ rhymin’ intil the licht.”

  “Ah, right—the Bible, you mean.” Alasdair nodded.

  “’Tis a wunnerfu’ thing what the min’s capable o’ when it’s pointed toward the licht. She turned the method o’ Olivia’s curses on its heid jist like she was fightin’ it wi’ the po’er o’ Scripture. Guid for the lass! E’en in a dream, she was takin’ up the fight!”