From Across the Ancient Waters

by Michael Phillips

  The axiom “Lead by example” works in many directions. The result generally reinforces tendencies already well established within the garden of personhood. A good example is not usually sufficient to counteract a bad one willingly emulated. In this case, as their father was the stronger personality of the marital union, the children had taken his model as their standard. Neither Courtenay nor Florilyn had any desire to become a saint. Both appeared likely to be granted their wish.

  Breakfast concluded, Percy wandered back to his quarters. Alone again, he stood for a moment gazing absently out the window, then turned again into the room and threw himself on the bed. It was less than twelve hours since their arrival. Already he was bored silly.

  His father found him unmoved forty minutes later.

  Their good-byes were stiff and awkward. Hoping for a word or glance or gesture that might indicate a softening in his son’s soul, the vicar remained a moment more beside the bed.

  But none came.

  Drummond turned at length and left the room. Tears gathered in his eyes as he made his way down the hall.

  An hour later he sat in the coach on his way to the train that would take him back to Glasgow. God, he prayed silently, his mother and I have done the best we knew. It certainly did not turn out as we had hoped. He sighed disconsolately then added in an inaudible whisper, “Do what You can for him, Lord. Fulfill the words of the proverb that he will one day return to the training we gave him.”

  Shortly after lunch—a strained affair with aunt and uncle now that he was alone with them—Percy wandered out behind the great house. He had seen neither of his cousins since the previous night and was glad. As much bluster as he tried to wear, he was, after all, still a boy in many ways. One would think that city life might have made him more worldly wise than his country-bred cousins. Just the opposite was in fact the case. Without any noticeable spiritual component to their existence, in spite of their mother’s efforts, and a sense shared by both of their own superiority as wealthy son and daughter of a lord, Courtenay and Florilyn had matured rapidly in that ugliest of character flaws—hauteur. They were in love with themselves.

  Percy Drummond, on the other hand, had grown up as the only child of a manse. That fact alone had shielded him from many of the very influences bearing such foul fruit in the personality gardens of his cousins. He at least had heard values espoused that, though he now eschewed them, had been part and parcel of the soil in which his being had sent down its first roots.

  Percy’s rebellion was a phase of youth. The conceit of his cousins was more deeply endemic to their natures. It would thus be more difficult to purge.

  TWELVE

  The Stables

  For the rest of the day, which seemed fifty hours long, Percy wandered about, did his best to avoid human contact, returned to his room, stared out the window, lay on his bed, wandered out again, and nearly went mad with boredom.

  The family did not gather for dinner as the viscount and Courtenay were gone to the neighboring estate. A buffet had been spread out in the dining room. Percy ate with his aunt, though the conversation was mostly one-sided on her part.

  Slowly the evening wore on. Dusk descended on North Wales. A gorgeous sunset rose over the sea to the west but was lost on Percy. Alone in his room, he stared out the window into the dusky gloom. All below him the house was quiet. It had been since the striking of ten. Everyone had long since retired.

  It had been a warm day. The evening remained warm as well. Percy’s window stood open. Straight out from him, midway up into the sky, a few reminders remained of the brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, and purples of the sunset that had come and now were gone. No noticeable disturbance of the air came to his face. Yet he felt the faintest tingling of the sea somewhere about his nostrils, borne inland on breezes too light to be felt by the skin. He continued to gaze in the general direction of the ancient Green Isle of Ireland, which was supposed to be out there somewhere. Closer at hand he could just barely make out the fading dividing line between the blackening green of sea and the faint dimming goldening blue of sky.

  What was on his mind, even sixteen-year-old Percival Drummond himself could not have said. He was young for introspection and unaccustomed to the exercise though its season was approaching. How far away and long ago Glasgow seemed—another world from this.

  He reflected on the incident that had sent him here in the first place—the theft of the sterling mug. It was not the first such incident.

  What had possessed him to do such things? So remote it now seemed in his memory.

  What caused the reckless streak within him? Was his rebellion directed against his father? If so, again came the question—why? Did he resent his father’s profession? Had he been trying to discredit him, make him look foolish in the eyes of his parishioners?

  For now, such questions remained unanswered.

  The only sounds coming from outside were crickets, turning the darkness into their own chirping symphony. From the stables behind the house, whenever the crickets paused to rest their leggy instruments, the occasional stamp of horse’s hoof or snort of nose and lips broke the silence.

  He knew his father had sent him here to change. But now the question rose, and with it an inexplicable annoyance: Did he want to change?

  A last vestige of insurrection rose within him.

  I am who I am, Percy said to himself with mounting indignation. I am not my father. I am no one but me. I shall do as I please! Nothing will change me!

  He turned from the window and took several restless paces into the room. Realizing there was no place to go, he turned toward the window again.

  He swore under his breath, hardly pausing to reflect that his father, peaceful man though he was, would whip him if he heard such from his lips.

  He closed the window with a bang, angry at the crickets, angry at the tomfool of a horse who was keeping the stables awake, angry at the peaceful and fragrant air, angry at the sea, angry at the mountains, angry at his father for sentencing him to this ridiculous place.

  He spun around and walked toward his bed and threw himself on his back. Mercifully sleep eventually brought an end to the tedious day.

  Percy awoke the following morning, fleetingly thought himself back in his bed in Glasgow, then realized with a sinking feeling that his waking had brought a return of the bad dream.

  His second morning in Wales passed much like the first. By noon he was going so mad with cabin fever that he had to get out and find something to do.

  After lunch he left the house again, determined to find some way to pass the afternoon.

  In truth, Percy was more insecure than he let on. He was not quite sure of himself here. He was out of his element and could not help feeling a little ill at ease. He fancied himself more a man of the city than he actually was. Whether he would allow that insecurity to be transformed into humility, or would encourage it to fester into smoldering bitterness against his father—the most natural, though illogical, target of youth’s imagined grievance—only he would be able to determine.

  Once outside, Percy walked around one wall of the huge stone manor house. He soon found himself among hedges and roses and flowers. As yet they held little fascination for him. He was not alive to the mysteries of growing things. Realizing he had entered an enormous garden, he turned and retraced his steps.

  Give him the streets of Glasgow and he would be at home anywhere. But here in the country—with limitless space in every direction, with green all about, with the blue vault overhead, without people and with only solitude and emptiness, and with such blasted quiet everywhere—he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  He kicked petulantly at the gravel beneath his feet. He had to do something.

  He made his way aimlessly toward the opposite side of the house. Soon he found himself wandering in the direction of the largest of several outbuildings surrounding the manor. From the sounds and smells and general look of them, he realized that he was approaching the barn
and stables. Though he knew how to ride as well as a half dozen city lessons had made him capable, it could not be said that he was a great horseman. But if he was going to spend the holiday here, he thought to himself, he would probably have to acquaint himself with this place. He continued toward the buildings.

  The wide wood-planked door of the largest barn stood open. He walked inside.

  Dim light and the mingled aromas of hay and horseflesh were the first sensations to reach his eyes and nose, followed almost immediately by a more pungent bouquet, at once enchanting and repulsive depending on one’s love or antipathy toward all things equine. It was the strong smell of manure.

  A snort or two sounded from deep in the darkness. Percy glanced about, sniffing with some discomfort. Gradually his eyes accustomed themselves to the shafts of dusty sunshine slanting through the doors at each end and several openings high along the walls.

  Suddenly a voice he could barely understand broke the silence.

  “You’ll be Master Percival Drummond, I’m thinking,” said a crusty, thick Welsh tongue.

  Startled, Percy spun about. Ten feet away stood a lanky man of fifty-five or sixty, clad in blue work trousers, boots, and worn green shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his hands clutched a pitchfork.

  “Uh, yes … that’s right,” said Percy, recovering himself.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the man. “It’s Hollin Radnor you’re talking to, my lord’s groom. Were you wanting a ride, Master Drummond?”

  “Well … sure, I suppose so—if you don’t mind.”

  The groom turned and ambled deeper into the huge barn.

  Percy followed, continuing to look about as his eyes adjusted to the surroundings.

  “Your second day at the manor, is it?” asked the man.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No better way to acquaint yourself with the country than on horseback. Here’s just the one for you, Master Drummond.” He paused beside a waist-high stall. Inside stood a light grayish-brown mare, with white forehead star and two white stockings on her forelegs.

  “What’s its name?” asked Percy.

  “Grey Tide,” replied Radnor. He pulled down a saddle from the rack nearby and lugged it to the stall. “Like the water of the sea after a storm.”

  “Not wild like a storm, I hope,” said Percy. He could not prevent his tone betraying a hint of nervousness.

  The groom laughed lightly. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Master Drummond. She’s the gentlest creature in the place. Though’s she’s fast enough with Lady Florilyn in the saddle. For today, you just enjoy a quiet ride to get your bearings of the estate and hills.”

  Satisfied, though still a little fearful, Percy watched as the groom opened the stall, spoke a few words in Gaelic, then proceeded to saddle the mare.

  He had never ridden other than on the flat grass of Glasgow’s city parks. He had never been more than a mile from the stables where he took his few riding lessons. Nor had he ever ridden alone. He was still trying to decide if this was such a good idea when, a few minutes later, the groom led him through the back door of the barn to stand near the mounting block.

  “All right, then, up you go,” said Radnor, offering Percy a hand.

  Still wondering if this was wise, Percy slowly mounted.

  “Follow the road there up the hill,” added the groom, pointing ahead of him. “In half a mile you’ll come to the high gate. After that you’ll have the whole of Snowdonia in front of you!”

  THIRTEEN

  On the Slopes of Gwynedd

  Following the groom’s instructions, Percy rode tentatively away from the stables.

  He had hardly gone a hundred yards, and was still within the precincts of house and garden, when suddenly the form of his cousin appeared from behind the trunk of a great beech tree. If her unexpected movement startled the mare called Grey Tide, the animal showed no sign of it other than a brief upward jerk of the head.

  “Where are you going?” asked Florilyn Westbrooke. She stepped into their path, reached for the rein at the mare’s nose, and stopped her.

  “Just for a ride,” answered Percy.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know … nowhere. Just there—up in the hills, I suppose.”

  “You must be a skilled horseman.”

  “Not really. Why?” asked Percy.

  “To go out alone … on our wildest horse.”

  “The man back there in the barn—I’ve already forgotten his name—he said she was perfect for me.”

  Florilyn saw the quick look of anxiety that passed through Percy’s eyes as he spoke. She met it with a mischievous smile of her own.

  “Oh … Hollin?” she said with pretended innocence. “One thing you will learn is that he is the biggest liar around here.”

  “Why would he—”

  He did not have a chance to finish his question.

  As quickly as she had appeared, his cousin now leaped aside, ran to the back of the horse, and gave its rump a great swat, followed by a piercing shriek.

  The mare lurched forward, nearly throwing Percy backward onto the ground. Desperately trying to keep his seat, he grabbed frantically for any piece of mane or saddle his hand could find. The next moment he found himself hanging on for dear life as Grey Tide galloped out of the grounds. Florilyn’s laughter echoed in his ears.

  In less than ten seconds, which nevertheless seemed a lifetime, his mount slowed. Gradually she resumed a gentle walk away from the house. Knowing full well that his cousin was still watching behind him, Percy did his best to regain his composure after the brief scare and do so without looking back.

  Vowing to get even with the little vixen the first chance he got, he tried to relax. Slowly the manor receded in the distance behind him.

  After passing through the eastern gate of the estate ten minutes later, Percy found himself on open hillside. He continued at a slow walk. Now that it was behind him—and now that he had survived it!—the memory of his brief skirmish with death atop a galloping horse filled him with a sense of exhilaration. As a result, he quickly gained confidence as he went. This was nothing like the lessons he had had at twelve on the Clydebank. He had to admit it was an agreeable sort of activity once he was comfortable enough to trust the beast underneath him.

  For one accustomed to the rolling hills and dales of Ayrshire, the countryside over which Percy Drummond now made his way might not have appeared scenic or beautiful. To the young Glaswegian, however, though he would persist yet for a while in trying to convince himself he hated the rugged and mountainous aspect of the place, it could not help but strike into him a vague sense of awe.

  Beautiful, perhaps, it would not be called by some, but wild certainly … big, high, even magnificent. If rugged starkness possessed an allure not found either in city street or tidy countryside, that appeal might explain why the ancient race of Brythonic Celts, now known as the Welsh, had made their home here. He supposed the area through which he now rode was like the highlands of his native Scotland. But in his two or three sojourns up Scotland’s western coast with his parents, he had never paid much attention to the scenery.

  At present grass grew under his mount’s four iron shoes. Upward ahead in the distance, however, stone seemed the chief characteristic of the landscape, here black, there containing reddish hues, but mostly gray. He continued to make his way through low-growing shrubbery and a few small woods. The highest ridges ahead, however, were so rocky as to appear mostly bare.

  Several peaks loomed rather than towered in the distance. They were not of particularly great height, though remnants of snow could yet be seen on one or two. The topography rose steadily eastward from the sea into the northern reaches of the Cambrian Mountains, of which Percy could now see the summits of Rhinog Fawr, Yllethr, and Diffwys stretched out as in a line some four or five miles inland. The lower slope of Moelfre was nearer at hand and partially obscured the latter. Blue billows of clouds drifted lazily i
n the blue expanse overhead.

  It was altogether a lovely summer’s day for a ride. Had Percy Drummond been more a friend of nature, he would have derived immense pleasure from it. If the truth were known, he was actually enjoying himself more than he was likely to admit. He was more than a little proud of himself for holding his seat for so long as well as he had. The spectacular grandeur about him could not help but prick certain hidden regions of soul to which it was designed to speak.

  Northward out of sight from here, the range of inland peaks rose amid craggy precipices and high-notched passes through the range to its highest point, Wyddfa, “nesting place of the eagles,” known in English as Mount Snowdon. The treeless granite gray peak from which the region took its name overlooked the whole of North Wales. It was the highest summit in Britain south of the Scottish highlands, second only to Ben Nevis, with which it shared an uncanny likeness.

  Percy found himself riding for some time along a trail that gradually and circuitously ascended upward and northeastward. Whether it was actually a trail or not, the horse followed it on her own. Cresting a small rise, he heard the tinkling of bells.

  A moment later, a rambunctious flock of sheep suddenly appeared nearly upon him, scrambling and bleeting their way along the ridge. Seconds later Percy found himself in the middle of a tumultuous sea of white. Neither horse nor sheep paid the other heed, though the mare paused while the little white balls of wool passed, scurrying and baaing around her feet.

  A stocky lad followed behind the flock, a black and white sheepdog at his side. “Prynhawn da,” he said as he came near. “Sut mae?”