When again he joined Ginny, his heart was calm and full. There was no other place in the world right then that he would rather be.
They sat for two hours and spoke of many things.
The ride back down the mountain was leisurely and slow. Neither seemed inclined to bring the pleasant afternoon to an end.
Fifteen
That night Andrew paced back and forth in his room replaying the wonderful day’s events in his mind.
They had arrived back from their ride around five that afternoon. After a bath and rest, followed by a most satisfying meal, Andrew listened while Chief Finlaggan Gordon regaled him for another three hours with tales of ancient Caledonia. As a storyteller, Andrew decided, Ginny’s father was every inch the equal of Duncan MacRanald. He even managed to keep Andrew’s attention off the subject that increasingly occupied his mind: Ginny.
Now, alone and weary but unable to sleep, Andrew fell to inspecting the contents of his room, while gradually a pensive and introspective mood came over him.
In one corner leaned a walking stick. Andrew picked it up and began to examine it. The round brass top-ball unscrewed into two half-spheres, revealing a compass inside.
“Clever,” thought Andrew, “and handy if you get lost walking in these hills.”
Fiddling with it further, he discovered the entire walking stick comprised of three equal lengths, each of which could be unscrewed by means of a brass fitting inset into the wood.
“For traveling, I take it,” mused Andrew, “to take apart and put in a suitcase.”
He replaced it in the corner and continued about the room.
A bookshelf full of intrigue claimed his attention, though it was too late and he was too tired actually to read. Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, Ian MacLaren, and George MacDonald all were well represented. Most of the books were old and apparently well read. What a treasure trove of the great Scots literature of the nineteenth century—and how he wished he had a month to explore it!
He meandered to a glass-enclosed case, upon whose several shelves were displayed items of apparent sentiment: an old doll clad in tiny kilt, a faded strip of tartan, a small set of decorative bagpipes, a knife of the sort that kilted men wore sticking out of their stockings—a scian-dubh, Andrew knew by now—several small porcelain figures of no obvious significance, a thin and very old book of poetry bound in leather, a framed photograph of a man and woman of nineteenth-century vintage, a plainly bound book that resembled several he had seen in the bookcase, and finally a length of heavy chain. Old, pitted, and discolored, it consisted of some eight or ten double links, each oval and some three-quarters of an inch in width, and with the links at one end apparently having been cut in half and then crimped together so the cut links would not fall out of the rest. An ornate and very old connective latch was fastened to the uncut end, with some undecipherable markings upon it.
The case was unlocked. Andrew opened one of the doors, then took out several of the items one at a time and examined them reverently. He wondered about the old couple in the photograph—they must surely have a story to tell! He would ask Ginny.
The book was something he had never heard of before, with an odd title: Warlock O’Glenwarlock. He opened the cover.
There before his eyes stood the reason it had been placed in the case rather than with the others on the bookshelf!
In what was clearly an old hand, under the date October 1882, the inscription inside read: To Laird Finlaggan Gordon, Lochnagar, a man who occupies a singular place of honor in my eyes: For those born and bred in the Gordon region of Strathbogie, the name is one to be esteemed, its great men most of all—and this laird in particular the author counts it a privilege to call his friend.
Beneath the words was the personal signature of the author. The autographed volume must have been presented to Ginny’s great- or even great-great-grandfather, thought Andrew, replacing the book with care. He would ask her about that too.
He removed the curious link of old chain. From the weight and color he judged it must be forged of pure silver. But what could be its significance?
He closed the door of the case, still clutching the chain with the latch and the oddly cut end, absently jingling it in his hand as he pondered its origin, and continued slowly about the room.
On the wall opposite the case, a framed poem now caught his eye. He began reading, only to realize that it was an ode to the very mountain they had ridden up today, written by an Englishman, no less—none other than Lord Byron!
Why was an Englishman penning such words about one of Scotland’s mountain peaks? Had he been bitten by the Caledonian bug as well?
But of course—now that he thought of it, it made sense. Lord Byron’s family name had been Gordon as well!
Andrew read through the verses twice.
Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses—
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
But restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes,
If still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho’ elements war,
Though cataracts foam ’stead of smooth flowing fountains—
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.
Ah, there my young footsteps in infancy wandered,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains departed my memory pondered
As daily I strayed through the pine-covered glade.
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheered by traditional story,
Disclosed by the natives of dark Lochnagar.
The words penetrated deeply into his soul, as if completing all the unspoken feelings and sensations he had felt this afternoon on the mountaintop.
Andrew walked toward the window, opened it, and gazed into the stillness of the night.
In the distance, he imagined he could see the peak of Lochnagar, though he knew it was only in his imagination. He drew in another deep sigh of pleasure.
What a land was Scotland—how wide, how open, how magnificent in its very starkness, how wild and untamed . . . how free!
But these very thoughts reminded Andrew of who he was and what was his mission. Suddenly he was aware that his life was not as unencumbered as the wide-open spaces of Lochnagar. His picture had been in the paper, and Scotland’s future had to be decided.
He would eventually have to resolve in his own mind whether Caledonia’s freedom should also include the right to be its own land, its own nation.
His thoughts strayed to Ginny, though in truth during these last few days she had hardly left them.
He had to tell her. He couldn’t leave this place without telling her who he was.
He would tell her right now, in fact . . . tonight.
It was late—ten-thirty or eleven. He glanced at his wrist and hesitated. But he couldn’t wait. It had to be done.
Andrew turned and left the room. He walked down the hallway, then gingerly knocked on Ginny’s door.
He waited.
Several moments passed.
Then the door opened a crack, and Ginny’s face appeared. She was clad in a white-and-blue robe.
“May . . . may I talk to you a minute?”
“I . . . yes . . . o’ coorse,” Ginny answered. “—Bide a wee.”
She ducked back into her room, then returned a minute later with a light coat over her robe. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.
Andrew followed as Ginny led him down the main stone stairway to the ground floor.
“Shall we go ootside into the garden?” she asked. “’Tis a warm evening.”
Andrew nodded.
A three-quarter moon, along with what remnants of the sunset would remain all night at the horizon in this northern locale, cast a pale red glow over
the simply laid-out lawn, bordered with a short-trimmed box hedge and containing four or five divided sections where Ginny’s mother grew different types of flowers, notably—notwithstanding Byron’s indication to the contrary—a nice rectangle of colorfully blooming roses.
They sat down on a stone bench.
An awkward silence followed.
At last Andrew rose and began pacing.
“Ye dinna hae t’ be afraid o’ whatever ye hae t’ tell me,” said Ginny.
“You’re right,” replied Andrew. “There is something I have to tell you. But . . . but it’s not so easy.”
“Jist say’t.”
Another pause. He felt her nearness intensely.
“I want you to know that these last several days—today, especially—have meant more to me than I can say.”
“Thank ye. But that sounds like a fareweel.”
“I’m afraid it is. I have to leave in the morning.”
Now it was Ginny’s turn to be silent.
“Will ye be back?” she finally asked.
Andrew had no answer.
“After I tell you what I came out here to tell you,” he said, “you may not want to see me again.”
“I doobt that.”
“You haven’t heard it yet.”
“Then I’ll tell ye again . . . jist say it.”
Suddenly realizing he was still holding the silver links in his hand, Andrew glanced down at it.
“What is this?” he asked, glad for a reprieve from his awkward stalling.
“I dinna ken—jist an odd bit o’ chain.”
“But what’s it from? Why is it in the case in my room with what look to be family mementos?”
“I dinna ken. Jist something that’s always been there.”
“Does your father know?”
“I asked him aboot it when I was a wee lass, but he didna ken either. He said it was here when he was a laddie too.”
“Hmm . . . curious.”
“But what was’t ye had t’ tell me?”
“Oh . . . oh, nothing—I just wanted you to know how much I enjoyed today’s ride,” Andrew finally replied, unable to bring himself to make the disclosure.
They talked a few more minutes. The emotional atmosphere was strained, however, and soon they returned inside. They walked upstairs to the first floor in silence. Both knew something was amiss.
They parted in the corridor, bidding one another good-night for the second time that evening.
“I’m sorry for getting you out so late. Good night, Ginny.”
“Good night, Andy Trent,” said Ginny, trying to hide the slight quiver in her own voice.
Andrew walked slowly back to his room. Once more he began pacing about. He read again through the words of Byron’s tribute to the Highlands hanging on the wall.
Shades of the dead, have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night rolling breath of the Gael;
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Lochnagar while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car;
Clouds therein circle the forms of my fathers:
They dwell midst the tempests of dark Lochnagar.
Years have rolled on, Lochnagar, since I left you,
And years must elapse e’er I see you again;
Though nature of verdure and flower has bereft you,
Yet still you are dearer than Albion’s plain.
England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved o’er the mountains afar;
Over the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.
When he had completed it, again he sought the window, as if looking out into the night might stop the pounding in his chest.
The silence was heavy, full of the mystery of the hills stretching away in the thin darkness, full of legends from the past, full of memories of this day . . . and perhaps full of something in his heart he was afraid would be destroyed before it even had a chance to bloom.
When Andrew turned back inside toward his bed, moist drops stood in his eyes. The Highland hills drew tears from his soul . . . though he could not explain why.
Sixteen
The next morning Andrew awoke early.
He had to leave. Even though he was not on a tight schedule, he sensed that to remain longer could not help but draw him and Ginny more closely together. He must not allow that to happen as things presently stood.
She had to know.
He had always believed in truth, or so he thought. He was here in Scotland because he wanted to do the right thing for the future of this land.
But what had he been doing these last days but living an untruth? Even if the falsehood over his identity had begun almost by accident, it had gone on far too long. He should have stopped it sooner. But like all falsehoods, the longer it went on, the more difficult it had been to correct.
But he could not let it go on any longer.
He had to tell her—he had to tell them all—the truth . . . come of it what may . . . even if she never wanted to see him again.
He gathered his things. When he heard the sounds of activity below, he descended the staircase and made his appearance for breakfast, suitcase in hand.
“What—ye’re no leaving us sae soon!” exclaimed Ginny’s mother, walking out of the kitchen toward the dining room.
“I don’t want to presume on your hospitality, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Dinna ye say sich a thing, laddie!” she exclaimed. “Wouldna be nae way for ye t’ do sich a thing.”
“And it’s hardly so soon,” he added with a nervous laugh. “I’ve been here four days.”
“An’ we’ve been privileged t’ hae ye.”
“Nevertheless, I really must be on my way.”
“Weel, set yer bag doon an’ eat a good brakfast afore ye gae. We’ll be eatin’ in the dining room this mornin,’ though Shorty’s done an’ gane.”
Andrew followed her into the room, where Ginny’s father was already seated. Ginny appeared a minute or two later.
A quiet descended on the room and continued throughout the meal, which each present explained to his or her own satisfaction by the sad fact of Andrew’s impending departure. Andrew, however, knew there was more to it.
At length, he summoned his courage and spoke.
“I . . . I have something to tell you all,” he said, with difficulty.
He paused and took in a deep breath. Ginny stared down at the table, avoiding his face. She could not have known what was coming, yet a sense of impending doom seemed to hang over her. Somehow she seemed afraid.
“I want you first of all to know how greatly I appreciate your hospitality,” he began. “You have truly made me feel at home. I have had the most enjoyable time of my entire trip through Scotland with you here.”
“Dinna say a word more aboot it, laddie,” said the laird. “Ye’re as guid as family noo.”
Andrew sighed. They weren’t making this easy!
“But I have something else to say,” he went on, determined to do what he needed to do no matter what, “something that might not be altogether pleasant for any of us.”
He paused. Silence surrounded the table. The other three seemed at last to suspect the approach of a thundercloud, though they yet knew not what it contained.
“I have not been altogether honest with you,” said Andrew. “I am sorry for that. It was never my intention to deceive you or anyone. It just . . . it just sort of happened. . . .”
Again he paused, gathering himself for what must finally come. He had taken on the UK’s toughest politicians and newsmen with little difficulty. But this was excruciating!
“What I’m trying to say is that . . . that my name is not really Andy Trent. I . . . I came north to Scotland not merely for a holiday. I came . . . as part of my job as well. And that’s where, as I
say, I haven’t been honest with you.”
Slowly all three faces rose. Six eyes bored into him. Knives and forks and mouths were suddenly motionless.
“You see,” he went on, “I’m actually . . . I’m a member of Parliament myself. My name is really Andrew Trentham.”
At the words, the eyes of the chief shot open wide in shock. He knew the name well enough.
Andrew Trentham was the political enemy of the SNP!
The stunned silence lasted ten or fifteen seconds, which to Andrew seemed an eternity.
“Weel, laddie,” Ginny’s father said in a voice of authority which Andrew had never heard before, “ye’ve told us yer name, but that hairdly explains yer mission! Ye got a heap o’ explainin’ t’ do. I dinna wonner that ye’re in league wi’ the other wha was here. Are ye his lackey, pretendin’ t’ be oor frien’ sae we’d sell the land? It luiks like a bit o’ treachery t’ me!”
“I . . . I’m sorry,” fumbled Andrew, “I—”
“What did ye think,” interrupted the laird, his red face holding back his rising fury, “t’ come here an’ spy on us simple folk so ye cud go back t’ yer English frien’s an’ laugh at the backward Scots that cudna rule themsel’s if they were given independence?”
“Honestly . . . it wasn’t like that at all,” Andrew struggled. But before he could say another word, Ginny’s voice erupted.
“Ye lied!” she cried, her face the same shade as her hair. “Ye lied t’ us a’!”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Ye’re jist a lyin’ Sassenach! I wouldna doobt if ye’re a Campbell too! Ye’re nothing but—”
She could not continue. Instead, she cast him a darkly furious look and stalked from the room.
The laird rose up to his feet and spoke as one declaring the solemn pronouncement of a magistrate.
“Ye’re no longer weelcome in this hoose, sir,” he said in the voice of stern command. “My wife an’ daughter an’ son an’ I—we’ll thank ye t’ gather yer things an’ leave us at once.”
Andrew rose, more mortified than he had ever been before in his life, and left the room in silence.
He retrieved his suitcase, walked to his car, then drove away from the place where he had known such brief happiness.
He saw none of their faces again.
An Ancient Strife Page 24
