Heather Song

by Michael Phillips

  In the twilight years of his life, Ranald Bain thus became not only Castle Buchan’s official fiddler for all events, at which he appeared in kilt and regalia, but also one recognized as spiritual bard to an entire community, esteemed and beloved by all.

  I set out to use Alasdair’s fortune for the good of the community and for all of northeast Scotland in what ways I could. That I would have no children meant that I had difficult decisions to make regarding the disposition of the estate for the future.

  With an eye to that future, I set up a governing board from among members of the community to administer the estate. If something should happen to me, I wanted to ensure that the entire community would own and benefit from the holdings and business activities of the estate. The castle itself I arranged to turn over to the National Trust for Scotland after my death, with a stipend to provide for its maintenance and care. Nigel helped draft the legal documentation for these changes, as well as being one of the initial members of the governing board. He was joined by Iain Barclay, David Mair, Alicia Crathie, Leslie and Morag Mair, and local businesspersons Moira and Alex Legge, Harry Harshaw, Tom and Judith Johnston, Steve and June Rush, and Alan and Marian McPherson.

  I had the gates and signs installed by Olivia removed. All roads into the property were kept open. Gradually I sold some of the estate’s land in order to allow the town to expand in the direction of the castle, hoping that in time, if it would not exactly become part of the town, the castle would be less isolated. I started harp classes in all the primary schools of the area, at which Tavia and I both taught. Iain and I went on a drive together every Sunday afternoon and stopped somewhere different most every time for a tea, a snack, supper, and sometimes for a thorough high tea.

  I set in motion an attempt to locate any of Alasdair’s cousins, however distant, who might be traceable. I wanted to be certain that whatever obligations might exist toward them were faithfully fulfilled. Alicia and Tavia also helped me locate as many of Max Urquhart’s relatives as we could. They were, after all, in essentially a similar position to mine, in-laws to the Duke of Buchan and his family. I felt a responsibility to make sure they were provided for financially. We established contact with Max’s brother and two sisters, as well as his elderly mother, who was living in pensioner’s housing in Port Scarnose, a positively delightful woman. She had been devastated at Max’s marriage to Olivia and the treatment she had received at the hands of her daughter-in-law. Though initially suspicious of me, we became the best of friends, and she took Alicia to her heart like one of her own daughters. When her health began to fail, we brought her to the castle to live so that we might care for her. She lived with us until her death at age ninety-three.

  Iain completed his book. It had become in the writing much more than a book about Alasdair, but about growth, healing, and reconciliation in personal relationships. It was not the kind of book to become a bestseller, though it enjoyed modest success throughout northern Scotland.

  About once every month or two, whenever Iain had the occasion to preach in the Deskmill Church, he paused in walking down the center aisle, waited for me to descend from the laird’s loft to join him. Then we both stood on either side of the door outside, greeting people as they left. The functions of church and castle, standing so close for so long with a wall between them, were now truly one, the dividing wall of separation broken by the truth of reconciliation Iain had explored in his book. The priesthood and aristocracy now functioned as one, fulfilling the purpose for which both ought to have been intended all along—to serve the people.

  Alicia became an accomplished pilot, flying Nigel wherever in the UK his business took him. Much to his delight, Ranald Bain was also a frequent passenger. I have to admit, however, that I never went up with her again.

  In afteryears, dear Ranald’s step began to slow. It was clear to all his closest friends, and to Ranald himself most of all, that, in his mid-eighties, his earthly days were gradually coming to an end. Never having forgotten her own unkind words to him when under Olivia’s influence, and his response of gentle forgiveness, Alicia’s tenderness toward Ranald as he declined was wonderful to behold.

  When he could no longer care for himself, Alicia and Nigel temporarily moved up the hill into the Bain cottage. It was their desire to be his caregivers in order to allow Ranald to continue tending his sheep until he joined his great Shepherd, and, if his health permitted it, to enable him to die at the end in his own bed.

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Hearts as One

  Happy maiden! Long ago life to me was full of beauty,

  Guided by the radiant glow, diffused by Hope o’er Love and duty.

  Slowly through the scented wood passed the maiden, smiling sadly,

  But afar impatient stood one whose arms would fold her gladly.

  —J. S. Skinner, “Maiden by the Silver Dee”

  Three years had passed since Olivia’s death. I was forty-eight, Iain forty-nine.

  It had been a gradual process in which we had both grown into the realities and complexities of our situation. At last Iain allowed himself to gaze into my eyes in a way he had not done in years. His face that afternoon as we walked along the sea wore an understanding, tender smile. It was a peaceful, quiet, unobtrusive, yet radiant smile full of light. Out of the deep emerald green of his eyes, almost as if emerging from two bottomless mountain sapphire pools, shone again the look.

  My eyes met his. I walked a little timidly toward him. His hands spread wide as I approached. The next thing I knew I was in his arms. It was the day he told me he loved me, really loved me in the full sense of all the word can mean between a man and a woman.

  “It is still difficult to understand,” I said softly, “how you can love me, after…when my heart was being pulled and torn by love for Alasdair and you…when it was Alasdair I chose, and you I rejected.”

  “You did not reject me,” rejoined Iain in the most tender voice imaginable. “You gave yourself to a man who needed your love. As much as I may have loved you, I respected you for your choice. You loved Alasdair, and that made me love you all the more.”

  “But how could your love be so unselfish as not to be hurt or jealous that I married him?”

  “Jealous?” repeated Iain, as if the word were a defiling poison he did not want to touch. “Why would I be jealous? How could I possibly have been jealous? I loved you both. Jealousy has no place in love.”

  “That is hardly the way the world sees it when two men and one woman are involved,” I said.

  Iain smiled. “It has not been my practice to adopt the ways of the world as my standard.”

  He paused thoughtfully, weighing carefully what he was about to say.

  “I think you knew,” he said at length, “that I loved you. I did not say it before because I would do nothing to interfere with what God was deepening between you and Alasdair. I had to wait for God’s purposes to unfold. When you and Alasdair told me of your love and your plans, of course, on the level of my humanity, I felt pain. But it was not the pain of jealousy or rejection, but the pain of sacrifice—a good pain, a cleansing pain. Therefore, I also rejoiced in the midst of my tears—rejoiced for Alasdair, and for my abiding love and respect for you.”

  “You shed tears after learning about Alasdair and me?”

  Iain nodded.

  “I had no idea. You never gave a hint of it.”

  “I usually keep the door to my prayer closet closed.”

  “But why…if you rejoiced in it, as you say?”

  “Why did I weep?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t you know? Because I loved you, too. I knew that you cared for me. But in your choice, and in my tears, I came to love you more deeply.”

  “This is all hard to believe,” I said. “It is not the way I expected things to turn out.”

  “Real life rarely follows a script. But here we are. This is the way life has come to us.”

  It was silent several minutes. I knew I lo
ved Iain. I had loved him almost from the beginning—first as a friend, and now…yes, as more than a friend.

  “Did you suspect that Alasdair was going to die?” I asked at length. “Did you know I was making myself a widow even as I said my vows to him?”

  “No,” replied Iain. “I wondered, of course, especially after Gwendolyn’s death. The disease never affected him, at least that I ever knew, as a child. Maybe I was simply unaware of it. So I tried to hope for the best. I always thought his health was fine. Obviously I knew there was a possibility it could strike him, which was the basis for my letter. But I always hoped my letter would never be read at all, and that eventually I would return to you both. Did he tell you of his condition?”

  I smiled nostalgically. “He tried to,” I answered poignantly. “He told me that he had been diagnosed years ago and that his life expectancy would always be in doubt. He wanted me to know before accepting his proposal. I dismissed it without taking his precautions as seriously as perhaps I should have.”

  “Would you have done anything differently had you known?”

  “No,” I answered. “Love is careless and blind to the future. Now that he is gone, I am so glad for the few years I had with him.”

  “I, too, am glad. I think you are right—even had you known, you would have done the same. You were thinking of a greater good than the security of your own future. The least I could do was follow your example.”

  “What are you saying, Iain—you following my example? You are the one who awakened faith in me.”

  “Perhaps. But you awoke love in me.”

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  “Gwendolyn’s Song”

  For auld lang syne, my dear,

  For auld lang syne,

  We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet

  For auld lang syne.

  —Robert Burns, “Auld Lang Syne”

  Late one summer while Ranald was still strong and full of vigor, I began what I hoped would be an annual outdoor open-air concert at the Bain croft, with local musicians, crafts, food, and a community celebration inaugurating the coming of the harvest.

  It was a Highland games festival without the games.

  Of course, harps were featured. Some drove up to bring tables and instruments and food and other supplies, but most of the villagers gathered with me at the castle, there to trek as a festive throng of two or three hundred up the slope of the Bin on foot. By the time we reached Ranald’s, our voices were booming out the robust strains of “Scotland the Brave” with such power that it was reportedly heard all the way to Buckie.

  The heather was in bloom. I couldn’t help thinking of Alicia’s lovely vision as the inspiration for the gathering. People were walking about, some hiking to the top of the Bin and back down to the cottage, families and dogs and blankets and sheep and kilted lads and lassies all spread out over the hillside in such colorful array. The gray towers of the castle rose amid the canopy of trees below us, the blue of the sea and coastline of the Moray Firth spreading out east and west as far as the eye could see. Pipers and fiddlers played from the makeshift stage between Ranald’s cottage and barn, the skirl of the pipes drifting over the countryside for a mile in every direction.

  As I glanced around at the panorama of people and families and music and activity, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a stunning thought—what if I had never come to Scotland! How would this scene before me on this wonderful day be different? Would all these people ever have known Alasdair? Would he and Gwendolyn ever have known each other? What would have happened to the castle, the estate, the community?

  It was too overpowering a thought to take in. You never know what the future might hold, or what will be the impact of your life in ways you cannot anticipate. And you never know how God might use the simple decision to pursue a dream.

  Midway through the afternoon, when most had eaten and drunk their fill, the ladies of my harp ensemble—twelve in number now—took the stage, with Ranald at his grandfather’s harp in a place of honor at the center. We played four pieces, ending with my favorite save one, “Wild Mountain Thyme.”

  Then came a great scurrying and moving and shuffling and rearranging, as the ensemble gave way to the twenty-two young students of my studio. When their nervousness and fidgeting and glances about at the sea of watching faces at last settled down, we began our program. We played a variety of Scottish and pop tunes, including, in Alasdair’s memory—though no one but me knew the story behind it—“Eleanor Rigby.” We finished, as did all the recitals with my students, with what I introduced as “Gwendolyn’s Song.”

  With the brief concert and recital over, proud parents and grandparents clustered about their young musicians, with congratulations and thanks to me, and exclamations of relief from my students to have completed the performance. Harps and cases and chairs and music stands were gathered and moved about, a few of the parents handing me flowers and wanting to have a few words, a general air of pandemonium indicating that many of the day’s revelers were gathering their things and readying to begin the walk back down to the two villages.

  As a break in the string of visitations came, I walked to the stage area where Ranald was just picking up his harp to carry it back into his cottage.

  “It was wonderful, Ranald,” I said. “Thank you for hosting such a memorable event.”

  “Oh, aye,” he said enthusiastically. “’Twas a happy time for a’, I’m thinkin’. ’Tis love o’ yersel’ that’s brought the fowk o’ the toons thegither this gait.”

  I smiled and was about to reply that he was as much a part of the changed atmosphere throughout the community as I was, when I felt a tug from behind.

  I turned to see a sweet little girl of about six, standing and gazing up at me with the most gorgeous light blue eyes. Her hair was bright orange.

  “Please, Duchess,” she said sweetly, “may I spier a question o’ ye?”

  “Of course, dear—what is it?”

  “Div ye think I cud learn tae play a wee harpie like the ither lassies?”

  “I am sure you could,” I said. “Perhaps you will come to my house and I will teach you. We will see what music you can make. What is your name?”

  “Maisie, mum.”

  “That is a lovely name. Do you know where I live, Maisie?”

  “Fowk say ye bide in the castle.”

  “That’s right. If you want to play the harp, that’s where you will come to learn.”

  “Wha is Gwendolyn, Duchess? Ilka body’s talkin’ aboot her, but I dinna ken wha she is.”

  I knelt down and gazed into the girl’s huge innocent blue eyes.

  “She was the very first little girl from Port Scarnose who learned to play the harp,” I said.

  “Whaur is she the noo? Is she still playin’ the harpie, Duchess?”

  I smiled, with the most wonderful images of heavenly music filling my mind’s eye.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” I said. “She certainly is.”

  As I said in the beginning, it can be a terrible thing when dreams die.

  But mine had taken wings I could never have imagined.

  Perhaps my dreams were like the seeds Jesus spoke of: “Unless a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it remains alone. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

  My dreams had certainly borne fruit. Even though they had contained sadness, the reality turned out even better than the dream.

  Is that not the way it is with all God’s realities? They are better even than we can dream them.

  As for the duchess and the curate, there was little doubt in anyone’s mind, still less to either of them, that they loved each other with an eternal love. What was to become of that love, however, they were not yet prepared to say with certainty, though their lives would forever be joined in a oneness more lofty than the world could understand.

  They were growing in their love, that much they would say. And when a man and a woman love God, such is perhaps the best thing that can be said of their love
for each other.

  Appendix

  Scots Glossary

  A’: all

  Abody: everyone

  Aboot: about

  Abune: above

  Ahint: behind

  Aiblins: perhaps

  Ain: own

  Ane: one

  Anither: another

  Athegither: altogether

  Aye: yes

  Bairn: child

  Bin: hill/summit

  Bonny: pretty

  Burn: creek/stream

  Caw canny: be careful

  Coo: cattle

  Dee: death

  Deid: dead

  De’il: devil

  Dinna: don’t

  Disna: doesn’t

  Div/du/de: do

  Doon: down

  Dune: done

  Een: eyes

  Fa/wha: who

  Fae/frae: from

  Fan: when

  Fit: what

  Fleyt: afraid

  Gae: go

  Gait: way

  Gang/gaed: went

  Gar: make

  Gie: give

  Gien: if

  Greet: cry

  Gude/guid: good

  Hae: have

  Hame: home

  Heid: head

  Hert: heart

  Ilka: every

  Intae/intil: into

  Isna: isn’t

  Ken: know

  Kennt: knew

  Lang: long

  Lauch: laugh

  Luik: look

  Mair: more