Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

  “How did they come and go when they lived here?” I said in a monotone of disinterest. “It looks so dangerous.”

  “There was a bridge from the mainland here over to the castle,” said Olivia. Her tone had changed, too. I glanced toward her. She was staring across to the ruins with a far-off look in her eye. “Come, I will show you,” she said.

  She began to follow the narrow path that led steeply down from the edge out along the top of a narrow and uneven slice of earth that had apparently, over time, been built up between castle and headland to take the place of the bridge. She made her way across it with the confidence of a Highland sheep. She obviously knew the way well.

  “Olivia,” I called after her, roused a little by the wind. “I don’t…I mean…It’s slippery, and so windy.”

  “It’s fine,” I heard her say. She did not turn around as she spoke. “I’ll show you the way down inside the castle. There are rooms still remaining. Don’t you want to find your harp?”

  “My harp?” I said, taking a few tentative steps after her. “What does Findlater have to do with my harp? It can’t be here.”

  “One never knows. Findlater holds the key to the mysteries—why not your harp?”

  “What mysteries?”

  “All the mysteries. The mysteries and the curses. Do you know the curse of Bain, my dear? Everyone knows the curse: The curse of madness will be the stain, of all who enter the house of Bain. The curse of Bain lives on at Findlater. It will always live on because the curse of Bain does not die. Winny still lives. She has become the curse.”

  She was talking gibberish. Frightening gibberish!

  “Olivia, where is my harp?” I said again.

  “Your harp? All in good time, my dear. You will be united with your harp again. Winny will show you the way. Perhaps Winny will play for you.”

  “But, Olivia, my harp is not here. These are only ruins. You are confusing the two castles.”

  Suddenly she stopped and turned to face me. Her face was wild, her eyes full of strange light.

  “Don’t be too certain, my dear,” she said. “You think I am crazy, but there are mysteries you know nothing of. There is a secret tunnel. No one knows of it now. It is blocked by the sea. No one knows how they escaped during the Viking rampage. But I know. And Winny knew. That’s how she escaped, too, escaped from the sea. Maybe it was Winny who took your harp where no one could find it. Ha! Ha! Maybe she took it to play for her own funeral. Ha! Ha!”

  I trembled as I listened. Then Olivia began to chant horrifying rhymes. “Winny Bain was not drowned by the sea, she hid from the Vikings and now is free. Ha! Ha! Her thin bony fingers pluck harp and lyre, as flames rise around her funeral pyre. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  This was becoming creepier by the second. I shook myself awake.

  “Olivia!” I called. “I want to know what you did with it.”

  She stopped and turned. She had reached the ruins at the end of the precipice and stood staring down into a hole among the rocks.

  “Olivia,” I called again.

  She did not answer or show in any way that she had heard me. Still she stood, peering into the blackness below.

  “Come here. I will show you.”

  I crept tentatively ahead, careful of my step and by now wanting to keep my distance. Olivia was sounding like a lunatic!

  Gradually the hole she was looking down came into view, the decayed remnants of an ancient circular staircase spiraling its way straight down through the rock into the interior of Findlater. It was steep and so many of the stones had fallen that it was clearly impassable.

  Was it possible…could she have somehow contrived to bring my harp here? Horrible thought! It would be ruined along with the ruins! How could she possibly—

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her voice, calm again.

  “This is where Maggie Bain died, you know,” said Olivia, walking slowly toward me. Her voice was low, expressionless.

  “No, I didn’t know,” I replied.

  Her eyes glassed over and her voice sounded strange. “The old crow—she came here and left flowers for poor Winny. What good do flowers do? Nothing would bring Winny back. Winny had followed the hidden path. She had gone where they would never find her. They tried to find her. But they did not know the secret. She was gone where not even the Vikings knew where to look. So she brought flowers, always flowers, because she thought Winny had been swept away. Every time I came along the path I saw one of her silly bouquets of dead flowers. And the way she spoke to me—she had no right. Blaming me for what happened, spreading it about that I knew more than I was telling. Who was she to accuse me?! She won’t blame me again, that’s what I told her. Now they bring flowers for her, the old witch.”

  I stood paralyzed. Olivia’s voice was harsh and rasping and low.

  “And Winny, the goose! Everyone loved Winny. All the boys loved Winny. Once she got pretty and her hair grew long and her breasts filled out…none of them looked at me again. It was Winny this and Winny that. Where is Winny Bain now, the goose! Taken by the sea, sailed on the tide, they all think. But she is hiding. She must preserve the curse of the house of Bain.”

  I couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was talking about. But I knew enough to realize I didn’t want to be on this dangerous cliff with Olivia acting so strangely.

  Cora’s words came back to me: “Welcome, O death, thy warm embrace, on the cliff at Findlater’s face.”

  I shivered and suddenly realized my incredible folly. How stupid could I be?! Slowly I turned and began creeping back the way I had come. I had seen enough of this place!

  Suddenly Olivia shouted after me. “Where do you think you’re going!” she cried.

  “It is too steep for me,” I said, though I did not stop. “I felt myself getting light-headed. I thought I should go back up onto the mainland.”

  “What about your harp? Don’t you want to see your harp?”

  “I’ll look for it later.”

  “You’re not going anywhere!” cried Olivia. “I want you to see the ruins. I told you I wanted to show you the rooms inside, down the stairway.”

  I glanced behind me. Olivia was following.

  “I don’t think I’m up to it today, Olivia,” I said, hurrying on. I felt genuine terror now.

  “Oh, Little Miss Opportunist isn’t up to it today!” she spat back derisively, coming rapidly toward me. “You have certainly been up to everything else. Up to ensnaring my brother and laying your greedy hands on his fortune. Oh, you have been up to it all right, turning him against me so he would cut me out. Oh, yes, Winny—you have had your way, and now you will get what you deserve.”

  “Olivia—I’m not Winny. I’m Marie…Marie Reidhaven, your sister-in-law.”

  “Of course you are,” she said, walking quickly to me, reaching out and laying hold of my shoulder to stop my retreat. The feel of her hand clutching me paralyzed me with dread. She forced me around to face her, then stared into my face with a wicked smile.

  “Who else would you be? My dear, dear sister-in-law who has taken everything that should be mine. I am the rightful duchess. You wormed your way into Alasdair’s affections. I warned them about you. I told them your music was but the allure of a charlatan. Though her music seems soft and sweet…in her heart lies only deceit. Yes, Marie, my dear sweet sister-in-law, I saw your scheme for what it was from the start.”

  “Olivia, there was no scheme. I was as surprised by everything that happened as you were.”

  “Surprised!” She laughed bitterly. “Ha, ha! Surprised that Alasdair left you the fortune that should be mine! Ha, ha, ha! Surprised!”

  “You admitted that you know all those things you said about me aren’t true.”

  “You are a liar!” she cried. “You are nothing but a deceiving, scheming tart.”

  Suddenly she lunged at me.

  I shrieked and jumped back, slipping as I did. I screamed as I recovered and tried to run toward the safety of the top
of the headland. But she knew the path better than I. She caught me within two seconds, grabbed my shoulder again, and yanked me backward with such force I fell to the ground.

  I screamed in terror. She was standing above me, such a look of hatred in her eyes as I had never seen on a human face. She lifted one foot and brought it down on my chest, then slowly began to shove me toward the edge.

  “Olivia, please!” I cried. “You can’t get away with it. They will know it was you.”

  “Who will know? No one saw us in town together. No one saw Winny, and no one saw you. Soon you will join her. You and she can play your harp together.”

  “I told Ranald I was going to meet you.”

  Another horrible laugh burst from her lips. “That old fool—no one will believe him. Where do you think the curse comes from? He is its source, his Highland blood from generations gone by. The curse from the ancient sorcerers of the Highlands. He is the curse from which the madness comes. You wanted me to show you Findlater. I warned you. I told you it was dangerous, that the path would be slippery. But you wouldn’t listen. You insisted that you had to see it. You set out on your own. Frantic for my poor sister-in-law’s safety, I followed. But I was too late. I arrived just in time to see you lose your balance and to hear the forlorn sound of your final cries as you fell to the rocks below— Right down there, Marie. They will never find you. They will think you were taken by the tide. No one will know, dear Marie, that you are with Winny. You and Winny and your idiotic harp—making music with the angels…or the devils. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  She began to kick me violently toward the cliff. Frantically I grabbed all about me for anything solid.

  Suddenly a voice cried loudly behind us. It was only ten or twelve feet away from the direction of the cliff.

  “Olivia, stop!” it said. “Stand awa’!”

  Shocked but not cowed, Olivia’s foot relaxed as she turned toward it. I knew the voice instantly as that of Ranald Bain. I had never heard him speak with such command.

  “You old imbecile!” she spat. “Do you really think you can stop me? I will send you to join your wife.”

  “Ye will do nae mair evil at this place, Olivia Reidhaven. I ken who ye are. Ye hae deceived mony, but ye hae ne’er deceived me. I willna alloo ye tae hairm anither. Ye hae killed here afore, an’ I dinna doobt twice afore though I canna prove the first. But I aye saw ye push my ain Maggie doon wi’ my ain twa eye, though I followed too late tae stop ye, as I told ye in court tae stop yer lyin’ schemes. But I learned my lesson that time, an’ I’m nae aboot tae let ye repeat yer evil deed. Ye willna kill again. Imich uam a Shàtain! Noo, Olivia Reidhaven, I command ye in God’s name—stand awa’!”

  The sound of her former name and the Gaelic command seemed to jolt Olivia like a dousing of cold water.

  For a tense moment all was silent.

  All at once, she let out a dreadful shriek and kicked and flailed at me with terrific power. I screamed again in terror.

  “The grass, Marie—grab the grass. It’ll haud ye!” yelled Ranald.

  Even as he spoke he rushed forward, swinging his great shepherd’s staff mightily in a great arc. It caught Olivia at her knees. She cried in pain and toppled to the ground. Two or three solid hits to her body followed until she scrambled up and out from under the torrent of blows. Limping and shrieking the foulest of obscenities, she hurried along the path and away.

  Had it not been for Ranald’s last words, I would surely have been dead by now. I was probably four feet over the side, legs scrabbling frantically for something to cling to, clutching with my hands and elbows at the roots of the tough wiry shore grass covering the rocky projection of the cliff.

  “Hang on, Marie!” called Ranald. “I’ll git ye. Here’s the staff. Take haud o’ the crook, ane hand, then the ither. ’Tis good for pullin’ mair tae safety nor jist wee lambies! Haud till it wi’ a’ yer life!”

  I don’t know how he kept his balance on the precarious path. Nor had I imagined a man of his years could be so strong. I grabbed desperately as he lowered his staff, and held it till my knuckles were white. Once I had a tight grip, Ranald pulled, kneeling and leaning back to balance himself. Slowly I struggled up to safety. I climbed to my feet and fell into his arms weeping in relief.

  “I’m so sorry, Ranald. I was so stupid. I should have listened to you.”

  “Dinna fret, lass,” he said tenderly. “She’s weaved her spells ower many afore ye came along. But I dinna think we’ll hae’t fae her again. The spell o’ her lies is finally broken.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Waking Dormant Seed

  When lambs and calves upon the meads in mirth and gladness bound,

  When loud the mavis and her mate make woodland vales resound;

  When she prepares her cozy nest adown the leafy grove,

  The vision brings to mind again, my first and early love.

  —Neil MacLeod, “My Love of Early Days”

  The following day a small lorry appeared at Castle Buchan. Two men asked to see me. They produced a list of possessions they had been instructed to remove on behalf of Mrs. Olivia Urquhart. They also had a key to the apartment Olivia had occupied. I was relieved to know that I would not have to tell Olivia in person that I’d had the lock changed. After the trauma of what had taken place, I had no interest in seeing her again.

  I looked over the list, saw nothing I was not eager to be rid of, and happily showed the men upstairs. Within two hours they were done. It was with a tremendous sigh of relief that I watched the lorry pull away, and with it the last remnants of Olivia’s occupation of the castle.

  Olivia was not seen in Port Scarnose again. Within days a sign from “Stewart & Watson, Estate Agents,” appeared in the front window, notifying all interested parties that the former Urquhart home was for sale.

  It would seem that nearly every frayed end of my life’s tapestry had at last been woven into its proper place. All uncertainties and doubts had been resolved.

  All but one.

  The moment the words Banff Hotel had sounded from Alicia’s lips as she was leaving for her date with Nigel Crathie, my subconscious mind began stirring an unexpected corner of my being into renewed wakefulness.

  Thought of dinner at the Banff Hotel reminded me of one of my memorable dates in Scotland, too.

  It had not been with Alasdair.

  They say ancient houses and castles such as Buchan often possess gardens that come and go and change with time. One owner or mistress or gardener plants and cultivates a certain area or plot of ground with prized species of flowers or trees or bulbs and shrubs. In time, however, these may become neglected and overgrown in favor of another plot fashioned elsewhere by another gardener, who then cultivates new and different varietals. Then a later descendant does the same yet again. And thus many changes over the centuries are made from ever-shifting needs of space, causing gardens and their locations and contents to adapt to the passage of time.

  It is likewise said that nothing from the past is lost. Nothing dies out. Life endures. It may change its form, but because it originates in love, life continues on. As the snows and frosts of winter send the earth into a season of dormancy, so also do the shifting and changing circumstances of life cover once-thriving plants and send them into seasons of periodic hybernation. But the pods wherein is contained the life-germ of such plants are not dead. They only await new sunlight and fresh rains to bring them out of their sleep into renewed vitality of life and reemergent growth.

  One of Scotland’s greatest men, Huntly’s native son of the nineteenth century whose books I had discovered since coming to Scotland, phrased this truth in this way:

  Many of the seeds which fall upon the ground and do not grow, strange to say, retain the power of growth. I suspect myself that they fall in their pods or shells and that before these are sufficiently decayed to allow the sun and moisture and air to reach them, they get covered up in the soil too deep for those influences to get at them. They say fis
h trapped alive and imbedded in ice for a long time will come to life again. I cannot tell about that. But it is well known that if you dig deep in any old garden ancient—perhaps forgotten—flowers will appear. The fashion has changed, they have been neglected or uprooted, but all the time their life is hid below.*

  * From George MacDonald’s Paul Faber, Surgeon, chapter 41.

  And thus it was that a seed, not long-neglected but long-dormant, began to come to life again in the deep, hidden, invisible garden of my heart. When he had first shown me the rose garden at the castle, Alasdair had said that the secret of a good garden was the gradual revelation of its mysteries. Was the same true of the garden of the human heart?

  At first I feared the quiet whisperings of the germ-cell urging the chrysalis awake.

  I pretended it was other than it was. I refused to look at it, refused to acknowledge that some unseen force was stirring in my innermost depths, reluctant to ask if God, the master Husbandman, was wielding an upturning spade and shifting the ground so that light fell again on the dormant seed.

  Yes, I admit, it was a little fearsome.

  But with the fear came also a tingling thrill of excitement. And the question: Can love ever be a bad thing?

  Is it not what we do with any God-gift that distinguishes the good from the bad, the self-centered from the selfless, the temporal from the eternal, the earthly from the holy?

  Fear is not intrinsic to the equation of life, only right response.

  At last, when I could no longer ignore the inevitable whispering reminders of what had once been, and now seemed to be a new becoming, the question arose again that had driven me back to Canada after my first sojourn in Scotland: