Heather Song (42 page)

T
hey kept me in hospital two days. I felt fine after one. But it was precautionary, they said.

I was still weak, but I ate and drank as much as they allowed. I quickly felt on the way back to being my real self.

The men had already seen to the removal of the
Queen
from the crypt. Not knowing whether I would want to see her again so soon, with whatever emotional trauma the sight might cause, they did not bring her to the studio. But she was now safe inside the library until I decided what should be done about the damage to her. Winny’s bones had also been removed before I arrived home. She was placed in a small coffin and now lay in the funeral home in Buckie awaiting a further decision by Ranald of what to do.

All this took place outside the ken of Olivia Urquhart, who, not surprisingly considering the physical and emotional strain, had taken a turn for the worse since her own return from the crypt. She had scarcely left her bed since.

Upon returning to the castle, a visit to her room was one of my first items of business.

I asked Cora to go to Olivia’s apartment and relieve Sarah so I could greet her. She came flying down the stairs and into my arms, weeping like a child for happiness. I think she still more than halfway blamed herself for what had happened. Her relief was profound and the gush of tears humbling. To be loved is a wonderful thing. If possible, she was thereafter even more devoted to me than ever.

I left her and went upstairs. I nodded to Cora where she sat outside Olivia’s bedroom. She left the apartment and closed the door behind her. I walked into the bedroom.

Olivia glanced up. Her eyes fell upon me, seemed to flicker momentarily as if she were having a dream. I stood staring down at her. To describe my feelings would be impossible. I must say, I was pleased that I did not hate her. Neither can I say I loved her. I think I pitied her. Whether I could forgive her, that was not a question I was yet prepared to face. I hoped when the time came I would be capable of forgiveness.

Olivia took me in as if I had now become the ghost. She seemed unable to determine whether she was seeing things or imagining them. Maybe she thought I was dead. She showed no sign of recognition or response. She just stared. I returned her stare expressionless.

After a few more seconds, I turned and left the room.

If the episode in the crypt and the two days before it had weakened Olivia’s frail system, my brief visit to her—as ghost or real hardly mattered—taxed her remaining strength to the limit. She began to fail almost immediately. Whether the cancer was invading her organs more rapidly, or whether my appearance sapped her of the will to live, not even the doctors could determine. Her face thinned yet more in the coming days, she ate little, and left the bed only when Sarah or I helped her to the bathroom.

Sarah remained devoted to her service, for my sake, and one or the other of us was nearly constantly at her side. What nourishment and water we managed to get into her came from our hands. When we were unable or needed sleep, Ranald sat beside her, now and then holding a cup of water and straw to her thin wrinkled lips. I played
Journey
at the bedside, mostly Gwendolyn’s music. What Olivia thought of thus being ministered to by Ranald Bain and myself, no word or gesture ever revealed.

F
or several weeks, we took turns sitting by Olivia’s bedside, feeding and helping her drink. It was clear the strength was ebbing out of her. She showed no interest in anything nor sign of softening.

A day came when Iain was at the castle. By common consent, we all felt it was time we three—as a threefold cord representing the past, present, and future—looked Olivia in the eye to see if she was ready for what God desired to make of her.

We went to her room and sat down in three chairs around the bedside.

She was wide awake but displayed no response at seeing us invade her shrinking private domain.

Ranald was the first to speak. Even after all this time, as well as I knew him, his words stunned me. The depths of the man’s reservoir of godliness continued to astound me.

“I forgie ye, Olivia,” he said.

I glanced at her pallid face. The faintest motion flickered at her eyelids.

Again it was silent. My heart was stirred. God was speaking to me. I knew I was ready.

“I forgive you, too, Olivia,” I said at length.

“And I, too, Olivia,” now added Iain. “I also forgive you with the love and forgiveness of God.”

Again her eyes flickered and now slowly moved around the bed, resting a moment on each one of us.

“You…
forgive
me?” she whispered in a faint, rasping snarl, as if the idea were too huge to comprehend. She lifted her head an inch or two, and struggled with great effort to look at each of us again. “You forgive me…for
what
?”

“For yer sin, Olivia,” said Ranald. “Ye’ve lived a life o’ selfishness. Ye’ve hurt mair folk nor ye hae ony idea. ’Tis but ane way oot o’ the pit o’ hell for ye, sae that ye can lay haud o’ the forgieness o’ yer God an’ Father. We a’ forgie ye. But for the Father tae git
his
forgieness intil ye, intil yer verra hert, ye maun spier for’t. Sae I spier o’ ye agin, afore ye meet yer Max agin, an’ afore ye meet yer brither an’ oor dear Gwendolyn, an’ afore ye meet my Maggie an’ my Winny…I spier ye once mair, Olivia Reidhaven, what I spiered o’ ye afore—are ye ready tae see yersel’ for what ye are…Are ye ready tae repent?”

With what little life was left in her, Olivia turned her head toward Ranald, her eyes gleaming with the fire of what the Scots call “the ill place” itself. The words that came through clenched teeth of determination—slowly, arrogantly, barely audible as she clung to the lifeless thread of pride and independence—chilled me all over again like her horrid laughter in the crypt.

“But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

We sat in stunned and silent disbelief. Olivia laid her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes, satisfied to have haughtily denied to the end the claim upon her dead conscience.

They were the last words she ever spoke.

Ranald rose from the bedside, shaking his head in sad disbelief, and left the room. Iain and I followed.

“I may hae jist come ower tae yer view o’ the thing,” he said to Iain with great seriousness as we walked along the corridor. “I think at last I unnerstand Geordie’s Lilith. I hae seen her wi my ain een. This can nae be the end o’ it.”

By nightfall, Olivia was dead.

O
livia’s death was the final closing of the Reidhaven chapter in the long saga of Castle Buchan and its storied history. It was a sad realization that reconciliation does not, even in the end, find a home in every human heart. It is possible to resist the call of Fatherhood’s voice till death, and beyond.

It was a bittersweet end to know that Alasdair, Olivia, and Gwendolyn were all gone. The family line was at an end. Whatever future lay in store for this proud castle, and proud family, now rested with me. I may always be an incomer, but I did not want to be an interloper to my historic Scottish name whose future, for good or ill, was now bound up in my own.

I vowed to do my best to discharge faithfully the duties and responsibilities that had, by so many twists of fate and destiny, thus fallen to my shoulders. Planning Olivia’s funeral was one of the first of those responsibilities I had to face. Given the circumstances, it was a very difficult one.

The simplest solution to an obviously awkward dilemma was to let Reverend Gillihan conduct a minimal ceremony, without fanfare, according to the standard form. He knew little of Olivia’s history. None of the controversy needed come into it. I asked him to consult Iain for details about her life.

The church was packed. There were no testimonials, no processional, no gathering afterward. Olivia was buried in the Reidhaven family plot at the Deskmill Parish Church. Few people spoke, though I heard tongues clicking as the somber crowd walked away from the grave. What tears were shed by some who had been the friends of Olivia’s youth seemed to be tears of relief.

In the weeks that followed, I did not want to press Iain about any aspect of the future—his…mine…or ours—even to the point of wondering what his vocational plans were. I was interested, of course. But I knew he would tell me when he was ready.

“I had a most enlightening conversation with Reverend Gillihan yesterday,” he told me one evening as we enjoyed tea together at the castle.

“What about?”

“My future in the church.”

“Hmm…does he think you are angling for his job?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Iain said with a laugh. “Just the opposite, in fact. He was most gracious, said that he appreciated how I had handled the delicate situation of returning to a former parish, and that I had been so supportive of his ministry. Then he asked me if I hoped to occupy a pulpit again, specifically the Deskmill pulpit. I must admit, the question caught me off guard.”

“How did you answer him?”

“I said that my prayers had not been so specific as that, and that all I could say at this point was that I did not feel ready to resume a full-time curacy. He then explained himself. He said that as much as he loved it here, and loved the people of the parish, he was not a native as I was and could be happy anywhere. Essentially he offered to step aside and move elsewhere if I felt inclined to resume my former position.”

“That is a remarkable offer for a clergyman.”

“I thought it entirely remarkable.” Iain nodded. “I was moved by his consideration. I told him, however, that I have been enjoying the part of supply minister upon occasion. So much so that I have been considering reinstating myself with the Session as a permanent fill-in and supply minister for north Scotland. That way I can keep my feet firmly planted in both worlds—the workaday world of manual labor, which I find fulfilling, and the spiritual world of church life, where I feel I can have a voice and make a contribution. I enjoy visiting different churches, sharing what God has shown me about practical Christian living, yet without the burden of administration that goes with the occupation of a permanent pulpit. I especially find fund-raising odious—so antithetical to the gospel…one more reason I believe the clergy ought to work—at least part of the time.”

“There you go again with your controversial notions!”

“I can’t help myself. But don’t you think supply and fill-in preaching would suit me?”

“Perhaps. But the ministry so desperately needs men like you—men who understand the life Jesus truly calls us to, and who aren’t afraid to challenge people to live that life.”

“True, yet I question whether the pulpit is the best place for setting out that challenge. So much of what the organized church both represents and emphasizes seems to produce the opposite effect in people’s lives from what I believe God intends.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the church as a pastor to make sure that doesn’t happen?”

“That is certainly one view of the pastorate. I believe Reverend Gillihan is just such a positive influence. And I am open and willing to move back into it full-time. If and when that time comes, I will take up again the mantle of the pastorate with eagerness. But at this point in my life, I do not feel so led or inclined. You cannot imagine how I look forward to getting up and going to work every day—to get my hands dirty with the things of God’s world, to sweat, for my muscles to feel the strain of hard labor. Nor do I have the least ambition for clerical advancement—a thing even more antithetical to the gospel than fund-raising. It seems like what I have proposed might be a perfect balance.”

“It sounds ideal, Iain,” I replied. “But you mustn’t mind if a certain local duchess follows you about occasionally from church to church, trying to glean all she can from your vast store of wisdom.”

Iain laughed with delight. “I will not mind,” he said. “But people might talk.”

“Let them!”

I
n keeping with Iain’s decision to take up preaching again on a regular but part-time basis, Reverend Gillihan secured official sanction from the Session to name Iain Barclay his assistant. Iain would resume the title of curate and would again be listed on the role of active church clergy. At his insistence, however, he would remain unpaid.

On the Sunday after the new arrangement had at last proceeded through its necessary channels, Reverend Gillihan conducted a brief reinstallation ceremony, then officially welcomed Iain into his ministry, which he said he was privileged to share with him. He then turned over the pulpit to Iain for the morning’s sermon.

The church was packed. People were hoping, I suspect, that Iain might say something publicly that would hint at where things stood between him and me. There were so many present that I invited some of the overflow to join me in the duke’s—now people were calling it the “duchess’s”—box. Thus began a tradition that I continued, of opening my private pew to anyone from the village who wanted to use it.

Iain uttered not a word about me or Olivia or the past, other than some kind remarks about his friend the former duke, adding that he felt refreshed in mind and spirit from his time away and the work in which he was engaged, and that he looked forward to what God would be doing among them in the days ahead. He was also very appreciative of the opportunity to serve alongside Reverend Gillihan. He then preached on the practical obedience of the Sermon on the Mount as comprising the essence of what he called life in the center of God’s purpose.

As we filed out of the church a short time later, with Reverend Gillihan and Iain standing side by side, Iain surprised everyone—​especially me!—by embracing me and kissing me lightly on the cheek, totally unconcerned with who might be watching. “With your permission,” he said as he stepped back, “I would like to call on you this afternoon.”

“Of course,” I said, smiling happily. “I will look forward to it.”

“About two?”

“Perfect.”

When Iain appeared at the castle that afternoon, he asked if I would like to go for a walk.

We drove out of town where we parked at the new cemetery, then walked to the path along the top of the headland that led from Port Scarnose to Findectifeld. We sat down on the familiar bench where we had first met.

“That was a bold greeting you gave me at church,” I said. “I doubt people have stopped talking about it.”

“I believe in keeping gossip out in the open.” Iain laughed. “Do you remember my telling you about my secret hiding place,” he asked, “down there over the ledge, where I first heard you playing your harp?”

“Of course.”

“Would you like to see it?”

“Am I allowed? I thought it was your own special place.”

“It is. I am inviting you to share it with me. ”

Iain stood and took my hand, and we scrambled down over the grass and heather. He helped me down a few steep spots until we were safely out of sight from the trail above.

“Be careful of the gorse,” he said. “It’s more than prickly—it’s lethal. I often say that if the Lord had appeared in Scotland instead of Palestine, his crown of thorns would have been woven of gorse. It is one of the reminders I believe God gave the Scots of the great sacrifice of the cross. I never look at the gorse without being reminded of the Lord’s
not my will
prayer of relinquishment.”

Within moments we were seated in a little alcove of grass and heather looking out upon the sea below. The only sounds were of the waves crashing into the rocks, and the gulls flying about everywhere.

“I see why you love it here,” I said. “It’s lovely. So peaceful and cozy. You can shut out the whole rest of the world.”

“Now do you understand why I was so surprised to suddenly hear harp music?”

“No more surprised than I was to see your red head!”

Iain became thoughtful. We sat for probably five minutes looking out over the sea.

“I almost feel I owe you an apology,” he began at length.

“For what?” I said.

“I know you would not expect it. Perhaps that is the wrong way to say it, but I feel that what happened with Olivia was partially my fault.”

“How could that be? You had nothing to do with it!”

“I might have seen it coming,” replied Iain. “I
should
have seen it coming. I cannot help but feel that I let my spirtual guard down, that I should have been more wary and careful.”

“You warned me about her.”

“Perhaps. Even so, I did not perceive the full scope of the danger. I should have been more attentive even when I was in London. Seeing how things developed after Alasdair’s death—with Olivia trying to take everything—I regret my long silence, and my absence from your life.”

“Honestly,” I said, “I would not have minded too terribly losing the castle and everything. If she only hadn’t resorted to such tactics, I probably would have given her half of it in the end anyway.”

“That would have solved nothing. Nor would it have been the right thing to do. I know the wealth means little to you. But Alasdair’s memory does. He knew who and what Olivia was. You must be faithful to that, and do good with what has come to you. Alasdair knew that she would have been incapable of using her position to do God’s good, as you will do. Truth must prevail. What Olivia sought was personal gain and power. She was motivated by greed, avarice, duplicity, and untruth. Believe me, even half of everything would not have satisfied her…Having it
all
would not have satisfied her. There was evil in Olivia. Now I question whether my silence about what I knew of her was for the best.”

“Silence…about what?”

“There was another incident. I should not have forgotten the lesson from it. My silence accomplished nothing toward repentance. It only deepened Olivia’s self-righteousness. It did not humble her. And it nearly cost you your life.”

“Is the incident you mentioned something you can tell me about?”

Iain paused and thought a moment, then drew in a deep breath.

“Alasdair told you about our adventure in the cave,” he said, “and the little dinghy we capsized?”

“Yes.” I nodded with a smile.

“There was another incident involving the dinghy and a second cave—a secret we shared that we never knew what to do about.”

“I assume it involves Olivia.”

Iain nodded. “The three of us often played together on the castle grounds when we were young, and she was able to bend us completely to her will. She possessed almost a hypnotic power. We didn’t dare cross her for the terrible threats she made of what would happen to us if we did.

“Gradually Alasdair and I grew older and braver and had adventures of our own. Yet still Olivia was a powerful influence in our lives. By then Winny Bain and she were friends, as were Alasdair and I. Winny was about Olivia’s age. All the children for miles were terrified of old James Bain, Ranald’s father. Stories ran rampant about the Bain croft and what happened to children who ventured too close. But everyone loved Winny. When she was twelve or thirteen and began to take on a woman’s form, she was stunningly beautiful. Even at such a young age, the older boys for miles talked about nothing else.”

“Were you in love with her?” I asked.

“Good heavens, no.” Iain chuckled. “I think I was thirteen at the time, about the same age as Olivia and Winny, Alasdair about a year older. We were still mere boys. We were fascinated by boats and caves and pirates and forts and castles and swords and all the exploits of Scotland’s heroic past. Our thoughts were filled with the Wallace and the Bruce and Bonnie Prince Charlie, not girls. But Winny Bain’s hold on the older lads of the village did not escape Olivia’s notice, and she became dreadfully jealous of the attention.

“You know now about the caves near Findlater. The tide comes in and out, swirling with great force. The passageway which led me to you has had all sorts of legends associated with it, of a hidden room where all the old Sinclair gold was hidden, as well as artifacts reputed to have originated with the Knights Templar that were brought to Findlater when the Templars were escaping Jerusalem in the fourteenth century. The legends involve Henry the Navigator, himself a Sinclair. I don’t know if there is a grain of truth in any of it. But as boys we were fascinated with the legends. We lay awake at night dreaming of finding the gold for ourselves.

“It was before the other cave incident, the one Alasdair told you about. I told you that Alasdair and I had tried to find the tunnel but never did. But I didn’t tell you the whole story. We were determined to get into a certain cave called Dove’s Cave and look for the secret passageway. We knew our fathers would never allow it, so we made our plans in secret. We contrived to attach our dinghy to an old plow horse of my father’s and lug it overland and down to Sunnyside Beach. There we launched it. We were careful of the tides and made our approach to the cave at low tide. We knew we would have an hour at the most to explore and get out. We were well enough aware of the danger of being trapped inside. Even then it wasn’t so low as the low tide that allowed me to find you.

“We managed to get the boat launched and then began maneuvering our way toward Findlater and Dove’s Cave. It was about an hour before the lowest point of the tide. We had to struggle a little against the outgoing current. But we made slow and steady progress and gradually saw the mouth of the cave yawning before us.

“But then an unexpected surprise interrupted our schemes. Suddenly on the promontory above us we saw two figures walking along toward the Findlater ruins.

“‘Look—it’s Olivia and Winny!’ said Alasdair.

“‘I wonder what they’re doing here,’ I said.

“‘I don’t know, but if they see us, we’ll be in for it.’ We were terrified that Olivia would betray us and that our fathers would whip us and probably burn the dinghy. ‘Quick, we’ve got to get out of sight!’ yelled Alasdair.

“Frantically we kept rowing, hoping they hadn’t seen us. We managed to get the dinghy behind a projection of rock that formed one of the walls of the cave. Once we were out of their sight, and seeing the cave opening up before us, we forgot about the girls. Our thoughts immediately turned to Templar gold. In another ten minutes we were inside and beaching our gallant craft on a slope of sand exposed by the low tide. We climbed out and looked around. We were awestruck, hardly able to believe that we had actually done it. We were inside Dove’s Cave! We pulled out our torches, switched them on, and crept into the blackness of the interior.

“What met our eyes was enough to fire the imagination of any boy. The cave went straight into the side of the rock and we were able to walk with ease. After twenty or thirty feet, the sand beneath our feet gave way to rock as the cave floor began to slope more steeply upward. We kept on, trembling with excitement, yet also afraid that any moment we might stumble across some old pirate’s bones, or worse. As I now know from my recent exploration, however, we had
not
on that day discovered the way into the inner portions of Findlater. We were in one of a hundred other coastal caves that wouldn’t have led us anywhere. But at the time we thought we had found the ancient treasure cave and were excited beyond words.

“Then we heard voices. We stopped and listened. They were girls’ voices. It was Olivia and Winny up on top of the ruins. We could hear them as clearly as if they had been beside us, their voices echoing straight down through some opening above us into the cave.

“‘There is a passageway up into the castle!’ I whispered. ‘Listen, Ally. Can you hear them?’

“‘I hear them, but I don’t want Olivia to hear us,’ Alasdair replied. ‘We can’t make a sound till they’re gone.’

“We sat down to wait. By then the voices were clear enough and coming from directly above us. The two girls were arguing. We both knew what Olivia could be like when she was angry. Then we heard her taunting Winny. That’s when she was at her worst. Her taunts were terrifying and dangerous.

“‘Olivia…Olivia, watch out!’ Winny said. ‘It’s steep.’

“‘Are you afraid, Winny?’ said Olivia in her taunting voice.

“‘A little…yes. I don’t want to go down there.’

“‘Why not, Winny?’

“‘I just don’t. I’m afraid, Olivia. Please…can we go back now?’

“‘Go back?…You’re not going back, Winny.’

“‘Why…What do you mean? I want to go back. I want to go now…Olivia—ouch…Olivia, please stop!’

“We heard what sounded like scuffling. Winny screamed. The sound of rocks falling echoed down the hole. Alasdair and I looked at each other in dread. We both still had our torches lit, which made our faces appear grotesque against their beams of light.

“Then a terrifying shriek sounded above us. We sat paralyzed, afraid one of them had fallen. When we heard Olivia’s voice again, we were filled with relief, but also with dread.

“‘Next time, Winny dear,’ she said, ‘it will be you tumbling down the hole with those rocks. So don’t you say a word to him, or he will never see you again. If I bring you here again, Winny, no one will ever find you.’

“‘Please, Olivia,’ we heard Winny whimpering, ‘please…don’t hurt me. Please let me go…I am afraid.’

“‘Afraid? Are you afraid, Winny?’ mocked Olivia.
‘Then tremble, Winny, when I look in your eye…and know our secret—it is here you die. Ha! Ha!’
She laughed to see what fear she could cause in her friends. She was so cruel to them, yet they remained with her. We were all afraid to stand up to her, though Alasdair gradually did.”

“Who were they talking about?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Some boy Olivia was keen on. She was insanely jealous of Winny and all her other friends.”

“What did you do?”

“We waited awhile, then explored some more. But what we had heard took the fun out of it. We knew what it was like to be afraid of Olivia. And though we might not have been in love with her, we liked Winny. We were furious at what Olivia had said to her, but afraid at the same time. We left the cave and returned to our boat and shoved off. By now the tide had about turned.