“Who is Mr. MacDonald?” asked Frances, who could contain her curiosity no longer.
Alec looked at her in surprise. “Who would he be but the Laird?”
“Oh, I see.”
“He is of a younger branch of the clan. He is a very proud gentleman is the Laird.”
“Does he live here?” asked Frances.
“Where else would he live?” replied Alec. “He will be asking you up to the Castle in a day or two.”
Frances thought this most unlikely. “But he doesn’t know me,” she said. “He doesn’t even know that I exist!”
“There is nothing goes on at Cairn without the Laird knowing about it,” replied Alec firmly.
She would have liked to ask more, for the information she had been given had roused her interest, but Alec had finished mending his net and he began to prepare to put out to sea. “They are wanting fish at the inn,” he explained, “but it is too rough for you today—”
She agreed that a calm day would be much more pleasant.
“You will need oilskins,” he added thoughtfully. “It is no fun going out fishing without proper gear.”
“Where could I buy oilskins?” asked Frances.
“Och, you could get them in Weston. You take the bus to Rithie and get the train from there. There are fine shops at Weston, so there are, and it’s a nice day’s outing.”
Frances watched the little boat put out to sea—it was rather pleasant to think that it was going out to catch fish for her supper—and then she turned northwards and took a path which wound its way amongst tumbled boulders and climbed steeply to the top of the overhanging cliffs. The cliffs stretched for several miles—sometimes they were high and straight, sometimes they were broken and jagged, here and there they had crumbled on to the shore in masses of tumbled rock. Frances wandered along and her thoughts strayed in and out amongst a whole heap of material. How odd it is to think I am here at last, thought Frances, here in Cairn! How odd it is to think that if I hadn’t happened to see the picture I shouldn’t be here at all! Alec is nice; I wonder who he is, and why he is so different from the other men . . . it would be fun to go out in the boat, but not unless it is calm. I might be sick and that would be perfectly frightful. . . . I must go to Weston and buy the oilskins. I could buy a torch there, and some notepaper . . . I want a warm scarf. I shan’t go for a day or two because I want to explore first . . . it would be silly to rush away the moment I got here . . . but it doesn’t matter (thought Frances, with a surge of pure delight), it doesn’t matter whether I’m silly or not. I can do exactly as I like. I can do silly things if I want to do them.
Frances strode along, she leapt from rock to rock. She felt a different person from the timid, nervous girl who had moved about London, solitary amongst the crowd; who had battled with the dirt and smuts in Wintringham Square . . . and I am a different person, she thought. I want to be different. The only thing is I don’t know what sort of person I want to be.
It was odd that she had reached the age of twenty-five without having decided what sort of a person she was—or wanted to be. It was because she had never had a chance to follow her own inclinations nor to develop her personality. Her nature was gentle and yielding and she had a horror of “scenes,” so her one idea had been to keep the peace, to propitiate her uncle and aunt, and to keep things smooth and pleasant. All her energies had been directed to this end, and she had scarcely been aware of her own existence until the old doctor’s words had set her thinking.
Frances rambled along, stopping here to gather a little bunch of primroses which were growing in a sheltered hollow, and pausing there to watch the white seagulls hovering and diving in the brilliant blue sea. She was so happy that she was almost frightened. Is it horrid of me? she wondered. Am I selfish and ungrateful to want to live my own life and to try to find out what I really am? But I must have a life of my own. I must be able to think my own thoughts. I’m twenty-five years old and I’m nothing at all.
She saw quite clearly that this was partly her own fault. If she had had a strong character she could have lived with Aunt Zoë and kept her own soul. It was because she was too yielding, too frightened of unpleasant scenes, that she had allowed herself to be dominated and repressed.
The path which Frances was following dipped down into a narrow ravine full of rowan trees. There were no leaves on them yet, but the sap had risen and the buds had begun to swell. A burn leaped merrily over a ledge of rock and flung itself into the sea. The path forked here, one branch continuing along the cliff and the other mounting steeply by the side of the burn. Frances hesitated. She was so unused to choosing for herself—even in unimportant matters—that it was difficult for her to make up her mind which path to take, and as she stood there, hesitating, she began to feel a quickening of her imagination. She began to have the feeling that something had happened here. Vikings had landed here. Perhaps they had landed at this very spot, and kneeling down had drunk their fill of the pure sparkling water of the burn. They must have been glad to drink, for, after their long voyage, the water in their barrels would be musty and tainted . . . perhaps a Viking had stood where Frances stood now with his sandalled foot upon this very stone. She visualised the man from pictures which she had seen—a tall, proud figure with flashing blue eyes and yellow hair, with a circlet of gold upon his brow and golden armlets. He would be carrying a shield emblazoned with his arms and there would be a sword—a long pointed sword—in his hand. He would stand very still, looking about to see if there was danger—he would listen for a rustling in the bushes. The scene could not have altered much in a thousand or more years, for the sea, the rocks and the burn were all immutable in their different ways.
Frances had frightened herself pretty thoroughly by this time but she had sense enough to laugh and throw up her chin. She began to climb the path which led inland by the side of the burn, and in a few minutes she found herself in a wood of pine and fir trees. The trees were straight and tall, with rough bark and gnarled branches which spread fan-like above her head and creaked a little in the wind. Their roots were shallow in the rocky ground, creeping across the path, and amongst the stones, seeking for soil. Beneath these trees the ground was bare of vegetation; it was covered with withered needles, but here and there she found a clearing in which stood an oak, ancient and lichened, or a noble beech. These trees were bare, of course, and the sunshine rained down between the branches so that each little clearing was like a bowl of gold. It was very quiet in the woods,, the sound of the sea—of the, waves falling rhythmically upon the far-off shore—filled the air with a gentle murmur. There were no birds; that was why the woods were so quiet. It seemed to Frances that no living thing moved in the woods except herself. Her town-bred eyes were not trained to country sights, so she was not aware that a little red squirrel had streaked across her path and was watching her somewhat anxiously from a fork in the branches of a pine tree.
Suddenly the path turned round the edge of a rock and Frances found herself standing in a blaze of sunshine. It was dazzling after the green gloom of the woods. She hesitated until her eyes had recovered from the sudden light and then went forward again. She came to a ruined wall and then to a large slab of stone half buried in grass and brambles. It was a strange-looking stone and she bent down to examine it, pushing back the grass so that she might see it better. It was a large slab, about six feet long and three feet, wide, deeply carved with a pattern of interlaced stems and leaves. The pattern went round the edge of the stone and up the middle, dividing it into two panels; in the left panel there was a sword with a carved hilt and a long tapering blade, and in the right panel a stag’s head with branching antlers. The carving was roughly done but it was boldly conceived and the design was simple but effective . . . there was something very satisfying about it.
CHAPTER IV
Frances was still looking at the curiously carved stone and wondering what it was and how it had come here, when something made her raise her head and she saw a ma
n come out from amongst the trees at the other side of the clearing. He stood for a moment dazzled—as she had been—by the sudden blaze of sun and Frances caught her breath . . . just for a moment she thought it was a Viking come back from the past.
The man was very tall. He was carrying a scythe over his shoulder. He wore no hat and at first she thought that his thick wavy hair was golden, but as he approached she saw that it was silver. . . . He’s old, thought Frances, with a slight feeling of disappointment. Then, as he came still nearer, she changed her mind again for, although his hair was silver, his eyes were young eyes, blue and piercing and very active.
She stood up, waiting for him to approach and wondering who he was and whether he would he annoyed with her for trespassing. She had seen no notices to say that these woods were private property, but of course they must belong to someone. . . .
“Are you interested in burial slabs?” asked the man in a pleasant cultured voice which had a lilt in it that reminded her of Alec.
“Burial slabs?” said Frances, a trifle breathlessly. “Oh, that’s what it is! I might have known—”
“I’m afraid I startled you,” he said.
“It was because—because the woods feel so empty,” she explained. “I didn’t expect to see any one . . . and so when you . . . but I hope I’m not trespassing.”
He smiled and replied: “There’s no need to worry about that.”
Frances was still nervous. She didn’t know what to say, so she said the first thing that came into her head. “Are you going to cut the grass?” she inquired.
He nodded. “It seems rather a waste of time but I like to keep this place tidy. So many men have gone that it isn’t easy to manage . . . but I like working here.”
He began to hone the scythe with a long white stone and Frances watched him and wondered who he was. She had thought at first that he might be Mr. MacDonald, but Alec had said that the Laird was “a very proud gentleman,” and there was no pride in this man—or none that she could see.
“I suppose this is a burial ground,” she said at last.
The man nodded. “Yes, it’s one of the earliest Christian burial places in Scotland. There’s a little ruined chapel behind those rocks. I’ll show it to you, shall I?”
“Tell me about it first,” said Frances.
He smiled at her. “You’re quite right,” he said. “It’s much more interesting to know about places before you see them. The chapel dates from about A.D. 504. It was built by St. Kiaran. He was a friend of St. Columba. The old name of this place is Kilkiaran, which means the cell—or living-place—of Kiaran, but gradually it has been shortened to Cairn.”
“Did he live here?” asked Frances, looking round the little clearing with interest.
“I have no absolute proof that he lived here, but I believe he did. These monks came over from Ireland. Sometimes they came alone, sometimes several of them came together. They were missionaries and they spent their lives amongst the pagan people of this wild land. They lived in caves or tiny huts, moving from place to place, spreading the teaching of the early Columban Church and caring for the sick. This was one of the places which St. Kiaran visited. I feel sure of it . . . though, of course, ancient history is a debatable subject. We can only build it up by deduction and by the examination of the data at our disposal.”
“I don’t know anything about Scottish history,” Frances said.
“Very few people do, and yet it was those saintly monks who first brought Christianity to Britain. St. Ninian was probably the first Christian to set foot on our shores and St. Kiaran was not long after him. One might think that fact was at least as important as the Battle of Hastings, 1066.”
Frances saw that he was smiling, so she smiled too. “I thought St. Augustine was the first—” she began.
“Good heavens, no! St. Kiaran died in A.D. 548, and that was more than forty years before the Augustine mission came to England.”
“So you were Christians before we were,” said Frances in surprise.
He nodded. “Of course we were, but the Norsemen started ravaging our coasts about A.D. 700. . . . We had no chance to develop the arts of peace.”
“Are there books about it?” Frances asked.
“These are our history books,” replied her companion, pointing to the stone slab which lay between them on the ground. “The whole history of the district is contained in these burial slabs—that’s what makes them so interesting. First we have the crosses and burial slabs of the early Columban era—the carved basket-work is the earliest pattern, for it was a familiar pattern to primitive people who were in the habit of weaving osiers and rushes into baskets for domestic use. The sword is often depicted. It means that the slab commemorates a brave and valiant fighter. The stag’s head means that he was a hunter as well.”
Frances saw the idea. She said: “It was a splendid idea to carve people’s characteristics on their tombstones, wasn’t it? It seems so much more individual than just writing: ‘In loving memory of Thomas Smith, a good husband and a loving father.’”
Her companion laughed heartily. “How would you depict a loving father?” he inquired.
Frances did not reply to this. She was feeling the carving of the stone with her fingers. “How deep it is!” she exclaimed. “And they can’t have had very good tools to work with, can they? It must have taken ages to do.”
“Time was no object in those far-off days.”
“No . . . besides, it was a labour of love. If you were very fond of someone it must have been nice to be able to do something for them. It would be comforting, wouldn’t it? You could spend days—or even weeks—making a really distinctive tombstone.”
There was a little silence and Frances glanced up to see why he had not replied. He looked down at her gravely. “That’s a new idea to me,” he said, “and a very delightful one. Thank you, Miss Field.”
“Then you are Mr. MacDonald!” exclaimed Frances.
He nodded. “Yes, but may I ask how you have suddenly arrived at the conclusion?”
“Because Alec said you knew everything.”
“Cairn is a small place and the arrival of Miss Field has created a good deal of interest amongst the inhabitants.” He smiled as he spoke and Frances smiled back. She had decided that Mr. MacDonald was very nice indeed. At first she had felt shy, for she was unused to talking to strangers, but her nervousness had vanished now and she felt quite comfortable with him.
They walked through the long grass towards the little heap of ruins which was all that remained of St. Kiaran’s chapel. The ruins were overgrown with brambles and a rowan tree had rooted itself amongst the stones, but there was still an atmosphere of happiness about the place—a strange peaceful feeling of goodness and kindness—and Frances suddenly understood what Mr. MacDonald had meant when he said, that he liked working here. Beyond the chapel was a rocky hill, and a spring of water bubbled out of the ground and ran past the ruined entrance. It was the source of the burn which Frances had followed from the sea.
“These early chapels are always situated near springs,” said Mr. MacDonald in a quiet voice. “It was essential for the monk to have his cell near running water. The people believed the water to have miraculous properties—usually the power of healing—but St. Kiaran’s spring is supposed to have stranger powers than those of healing. Legend has it that any one who drinks the water will be married within a year.”
Frances was hot and thirsty. She had knelt down beside the trickle of water and cupped her hands, but now she started back. “They don’t believe in it nowadays, do they?” she inquired.
“No, of course not,” replied Mr. MacDonald, looking down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Nobody believes in fairies nowadays—or in magic wells—but all the same I’m told that quite a number of village maidens come to Kilkiaran to drink at this spring . . . It’s perfectly safe to drink,” he added. “It’s as pure as any water could possibly be.”
Frances shook her head.
/> “Why not?” inquired her companion. “Are you afraid that the spell will work? I believe you’re every bit as bad as the village maidens.”
The bubbling water looked delightful but it was quite impossible to drink it after what Mr. MacDonald had said. Frances had not the necessary savoir-faire to carry off the situation—she was shy and embarrassed again.
“I don’t want to be married,” she said awkwardly. “I like being free—” and then, before he could ask any inconvenient questions, she changed the subject by asking if there were any more burial slabs to be seen. She had a feeling that her companion would not be able to resist this question, and she was right.
“Not here,” he said, “but there are many scattered about the district. Many of them are very fine indeed with deep carving and beautiful designs. Some of the slabs are carved with the ancient emblem of the Trinity—three legs in the form of a wheel—others depict a pair of shears which represents the cutting of the thread of life. Swords are very common, of course, and so are emblems of the chase. After the Columban era we find stones which show the influence of the Norsemen—or Vikings—the galley with its pointed prow and stern, mermaids, whales and dolphins and sometimes a hunt with dogs in full cry. Then comes the Norwegian era—the district was actually a part of Norway until 1025 when it was ceded to Alexander III for a yearly tribute. The Norwegians professed Christianity but were pagans at heart, full of strange superstitions, and during their occupation we find burial slabs depicting winged beasts and strange birds and animals which were never seen on earth, all of which are intended to convey some meaning.”
“And after the Norwegians?” asked Frances.
“Soon after the Norwegians we begin to find effigies,” he replied. “These are intended to be actual likenesses of the departed. The best examples are of blue schist, which is very hard and can be cut into delicate fretwork. They date from about 1335. The warriors are depicted wearing the peaked helmet and the solleret with curved and pointed toes—” He stopped suddenly and then added in a different tone: “But I’m so interested in these things that I’m apt to bore people. My cousin says I scare all our visitors away.”
Spring Magic Page 4
