Heather Song (9 page)

A
s I made my way up the slopes of Crannoch Bin for the second day in a row, frightening and spooky thoughts assailed me. Even the trees blowing frenetically in the wind became menacing and sinister, as if they were conspiring to prevent my progress. I began to feel, as I had so many times since coming to Scotland, that I was part of a fairy tale. However, this time it was no Prince Charming story, but an evil tale with witches and goblins trying to lure me onto the mountain where they would kill me and my body would never be found.

Faster and faster I walked. The more I hurried, the more furiously the wind raged and the trees blew about me on every side. The worst of it was that the horrible, mesmerizing, chanting words of Olivia’s curse rang over and over in my brain. Even the sound of her smooth, calm, seductive voice began to haunt my thoughts with her terrible words.

“Madness will be the stain…madness will be the stain…madness…madness…all who enter the house of Bain.”

I hated it, but I couldn’t stop it. The curse took on a life of its own.

Was
I going mad?

I had lain awake half the night tormented by Olivia’s words. Were her occultish powers getting inside me? Was I, too, falling under Olivia’s control?

Had the madness begun the very first time Ranald had lured me into his cottage…lured me with his deceptive words…lured me with the spell of his music that sounded sweet but had seductive powers that had put my senses to sleep ? That was how spells worked, turning everything upside down so you couldn’t tell light from darkness, right from wrong, good from evil.

When had the madness begun? Had I slowly been going mad all along?

Alicia was the sane one, not me. I should have heeded her warnings. Now I was on my way to the very house of madness itself.

Doubts flew at me out of the wind and trees like invisible arrows. They bombarded me with evil thoughts about Ranald, about Alasdair, about everything that had happened since I first set foot in Scotland. Olivia’s soft, soothing, mesmerizing words returned to me—

“You do not understand, Marie. You cannot understand. Things are not as they seem. But I will help you understand. I will help you see clearly. Only I can help you understand.”

I forgot everything good. I forgot my harp. I forgot Gwendolyn. I forgot the music of the angels. I forgot God. I forgot to pray.

Suddenly, out of the wind and storm, words that Iain Barclay had once spoken returned to me like a still, small voice of calm.

“Character is the most reliable validation of truth. You have to discern individual character. It will lead you to truth.”

When I’d had doubts about Alasdair—and those doubts, too, had been planted by Olivia—Iain’s words about character had helped me see Alasdair for the man he truly was.

I couldn’t let Olivia’s lies and distortions twist my mind into terrible confusion again.

Character
mattered
. It mattered more than anything. And as I had discovered in Alasdair’s case, Ranald’s character was true. I knew it. I must hang on to that belief. Though I had no
proof
about her allegations, I knew Olivia’s perceptions were lies. Alasdair’s
character
spoke truth. So did Ranald’s.

I pressed on. The wind continued to batter against me as if in angry retaliation against my resolve to defeat the force of Olivia’s curse.

I reached the cottage under gloomy skies.

The place looked deserted, and unaccountably foreboding. I shivered and couldn’t help Olivia’s horrible chant running through my brain yet again. I hated myself for allowing it. But I couldn’t help it. Once planted, the seeds of evil are hard to uproot.

I reached up and yanked on the rope that rang Ranald’s bell, then rang it again even louder, as if the sound could banish the incantation from my mind.

In the distance I heard a dog bark. My heart almost leaped for joy at the familiar sound.

Several minutes later, the collie and two sheepdogs romped toward me, bounding and barking in a frenzy of canine greeting. Ranald himself was slower to arrive but at last came into view, well bundled against the approaching weather, his proud gray thatch shooting out in all directions from under a well-worn brown tartan wool cap, his familiar smile easily visible amid the gray-white beard blowing about in the wind.

“Marie, lass!” he greeted me warmly. “I had the feelin’ I’d aye be seein’ ye again afore lang after yesterday. Hoo’s Alicia?”

“Not so well, I’m afraid,” I answered. “I am so sorry about all that. I was mortified by what she said.”

“Think nae mair aboot it. I’ve been used tae it these mony a lang year. Bein’ at cross purposes wi’ young Olivia Reidhaven made me ane wha had tae endure the slings an’ arrows o’ outrageous fortune mony a time afore yesterday. But come in oot o’ the win’,” he said as he led the way inside.

He put on water for tea, then added several chunks to his fireplace and jabbed the coals a few times with a poker.

“How do you know Alicia?” I asked as I sat down. “You seemed well acquainted.”

“Aye, but I haena seen her for mony a lang year.”

“You knew her when she was young, then?”

“Oh, aye. In a wee village the likes o’ Port Scarnose, there are nae mony folk a man like me disna ken. Ilka body kens ilka body, as they say. Alicia an’ oor Winny were frien’s, wi’ Olivia an’ the rest o’ her wee group o’ lassies. I haena spoken wi’ the lass for years as I say, an’ hae only seen her fae a distance upon occasion, at yer weddin’ an’ the like. But I kennt there was ill-blud swirlin’ aboot on account o’ Olivia an’ her mischief. I didn’t ken ’twas still sae deep intil the puir lass’s mind as we saw yesterday. I fear for her. When the seeds o’ anither’s evil get such a deep grip in a body’s mind, naethin’ but ill can come o’t. The seeds o’ Olivia’s evil are still growin’ aroun’ us, I’m thinkin’.”

“I was shocked at what she said,” I said. “When I told her this morning that I was coming to see you, she became frightened all over again. She begged me not to come. She hasn’t been herself since we were here yesterday. She slept most of the day. She looks different. Her voice is different.”

Ranald sighed and shook his head. “’Tis deep spiritual mischief afoot,” he said. His voice was grave. “Fit’s lang lain dormant may be comin’ back tae rear its head again. We maun be on oor guard, as the Lord says.”

“What do you mean,
spiritual
mischief?” I asked.

Ranald had been standing near his hearth as we spoke. He now sat down opposite me and thought seriously for at least a minute before answering. As I waited, the cottage became so still and quiet inside that again I became aware of the wind blowing about outside, occasionally whistling or gusting down the chimney and agitating the fire.

“Hoo weel acquainted are ye, Marie,” said Ranald at length, “wi’ the forces o’ spiritual darkness in the world?”

“I, uh…I don’t know,” I replied. “Are you talking about…you mean the devil and Satan and that kind of thing?”

“In a manner o’ speakin’,” said Ranald. “But no’ wi’ horns an’ a tail an’ dressed in red wi’ flames dancin’ up roun’ his feet. There’s all kin’ o’ ways o’ thwartin’ the ways o’ God. In a superstitious land wi’ a history steeped in paganism an’ druids an’ magic an’ the like, e’en the natural spiritual nature o’ the Scots people is all too curious aboot the dark side o’ things. It gets a grip an’ a hold on folk wi’ genuine spiritual sensitivities mair nor it might ither folk. When an’ hoo it took root in a lass like Olivia Reidhaven, I dinna ken. But the po’er o’ darkness was aye alive in her the first time I laid een on the lass. I recognized the enemy o’ God fae that first day, an’ that gleam in her eyes ne’er left, though she’s an elder in the kirk, her hert’s set agin’ the ways o’ God. She discovered yoong that she had the po’er tae control ither lads an’ lassies, that she cud make them de what she wanted, that she cud put fear intil them, that she cud make them afraid, that she cud put thoughts intil their heids. We saw it a’, my Maggie an’ me. We did oor best tae keep oor Winny fae her. We saw that naethin’ but ill could come o’ bein’ too close tae sich a one. But in young nickums, evil is a terrible magnet. Evil attracts ither lads an’ lassies. I dinna ken why ’tis so. Why doesna goodness an’ purity an’ humility an’ honesty attract the young? ’Tis sin, not righteousness that attracts. ’Tis one o’ the laws o’ mankind that evil grows an’ breeds an’ bears readier fruit than goodness. Weeds o’ the sinful nature grow wi’oot care, but roses o’ righteousness take nurturin’ an’ love an’ the work o’ daily ministration, an’ ’tis the same wi’ the plant o’ human character. ’Tis aye
hard
tae learn tae be good an’ kind, but ’tis the easiest thing in the worl’ tae be selfish an’ cruel an’ unkind.”

Again Ranald sighed and appeared to sink once more into deep thought.

“Fan Olivia saw that she could bend ither lads an’ lassies tae her will, she couldna resist usin’ the po’er. Fan she saw she cud plant seeds o’ fear wi’ her words, already she was weel on her way toward the dark side o’ God’s worl’. ’Twas too intoxicatin’ a drink tae the pride o’ self for her no’ tae keep drinkin’ it, an’ she nurtured that dark power by usin’ it. An’ the self grew, an’ the po’er grew, an’ the pride grew. The mair she used her powers, the greater they became, for evil always builds on its own success. By the time the lass was ten or twelve, the hale village was feart o’ her for the strange things she said, for they’d all come to believe she had the po’er o’ the de’il in her.”

“
Did
she have special powers?” I asked.

“I dinna doubt she did,” replied Ranald. “There’s stories told o’ a Highland gran’mither wi’ the second sicht wha many say was a witch an’ passed on her po’ers tae Olivia. ’Tis said the curses o’ the duke’s family came down fae the Highlands through the auld witch o’ Skye, they called her.”

“That’s awful!” I said with a shudder, reminded of the horror I felt when Alasdair first told me about meeting his grandmother..

“No evil has mair po’er nor it’s given. Evil has po’er o’er yersel’, Marie, or o’er me or yer Alasdair…
only
gien we gie it the po’er. But gien we
dinna
, it canna touch us. Evil has nae po’er o’ its own. All the threats o’ the devil’s nae mair than a tiny puff agin’ the mighty winds o’ God’s love. The devil has
naethin’
o’ his own. Evil has only the po’er it’s given…nae mair than any man or woman gie it in themselves. When a body resists it, it canna weigh nae mair nor a feather agin’ him.”

“So what you are saying is that Olivia
did
give evil its power, because she gave into it and used it?”

“Aye. Then ithers gave Olivia po’er o’er them. Those she cud control wi’ fear, she did control, but only because they let her. She learnt early tae hate me because I kennt her for what she was. The curse hae nae po’er o’er me because I gie it no po’er. One word o’ God’s trowth is enouch to send a thousand curses o’ the de’il back tae hell where they belang. She couldna control me, so she tried tae destroy me. I hae nae doubt that’s what’s behind the nonsense wi’ Alicia an’ fit she was speikin’ aboot.”

“Have you ever heard the curse Olivia spoke against you?” I asked.

“I didna ken it till yesterday, though I suspected it. Wi’ all the evil she’s broucht agin’ my family, I dinna doubt she had tae make up some curse or anither tae justify hersel’.”

“Do you want to hear it?” I asked. I was having a hard time keeping my indignation from boiling over at how Ranald had been treated.

“Div ye ken it yersel’?”

I nodded. “I made Alicia tell me.”

“Aye, then, I ought tae ken’t. Gien we’re gan tae brak the ill thing, we maun ken what we’re battlin’ agin’. Aye, tell me, Marie, lass.”

“Now I don’t
want
to. I feel foolish for allowing myself to listen. It’s too horrible. I don’t even want to say it.”

“We maun bring it intil the licht,” said Ranald. “Only licht can drive oot the darkness. Haena fear, lass—trowth’s nae bothered by a few words o’ the de’il’s.”

“All right, then,” I said, “here it is—‘
The curse of madness will be the stain, of all who enter the house of Bain
.’”

Ranald listened calmly, then sat several moments, whether in prayer or deep thought, I could not discern. Slowly the light of righteous anger flared in his eyes and he stood.

Even as he rose to his feet, a torrent of indignation poured forth from his mouth. The words were in a tongue I did not recognize, but it sounded earthy and ancient. I sensed myself in the presence of an Old Testament prophet calling down doom upon a city of sin.

“A teanga a’ diabhuil mhoir, tha thu ag dèanamh breug!”
Ranald cried in a deep voice of outraged power. “In the name o’ the Father o’ Jesus Christ, I break the curse spoken agin’ this hoose where dwell the people o’ God! I send the foul words back whence they came, tae be consumed in the fire o’ hell wi’ the de’il an’ all wha consort wi’ his evil ways.”

His outburst was so commanding that I listened with wide eyes of awe. I had never in my life heard such a thundering outcry against evil or the devil. As quickly as it had come, it was over.

Silence again reigned.

Calm but spent, Ranald resumed his seat in the chair. He sat for some time breathing heavily and deeply.

N
either Ranald nor I said a word for many minutes.

Something had passed. A calm descended. The anxiety I had felt since yesterday gradually dissipated. A change had come. Without putting it in so many words, I realized that whatever effect may have lingered from Olivia’s words had been broken.

Strange to say, perhaps they had been broken from their power to infect
me
more than Ranald. I had only just heard Olivia’s curse. Yet overnight and on the walk up the Bin, they had played enough tricks on my brain to make me begin believing them.

Gradually, as we sat, for the first time since Alicia and I had set out twenty-four hours earlier, I remembered why I had wanted to visit Ranald Bain in the first place.

At length Ranald rose and walked almost methodically to the stove and poured out water for tea.

“What can you tell me about Iain’s leaving?” I asked, rising and following him.

The question didn’t seem to surprise him.

“Ye’ll be meanin’ the
why
o’ his leavin’?” he said.

“That, yes…and everything—how long he’d been planning it, where he’s gone.”

“I dinna doubt ye can guess the
why
well enouch.”

“You mean, because of Alasdair and me…he was thinking of us more than himself?”

“Gien ye ken Iain Barclay as weel as I think ye do, ye’ll ken there’s nae a selfish bane in his body.”

“Of course—I do know that. But that he said nothing…did not say good-bye to Alasdair and me, said nothing to us of his plans…It took us both completely by surprise. We were stunned when we went to church and found a stranger in the pulpit.”

Ranald smiled as we both returned to our chairs with hot cups of tea.

“I canna say I was athegither taken by surprise at the turn o’ the thing,” Ranald said. “The lad paid me a number o’ visits o’er the course o’ several months leadin’ up tae the weddin’. I had an idea he was thinkin’ aboot some kin’ o’ change or anither.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Nae in sae many words.”

“What about before he left?”

“He came for ane last visit. That’s when he told me he had decided tae leave Port Scarnose, that a supply minister was bein’ sent fae Edinburgh tae attend tae the affairs o’ the kirk, an’ that he’d contact me in time when he was settled.”

“But where is he? Where did he go? Did he accept another church somewhere?”

“I dinna ken, lassie,” replied Ranald. “He told me tae gie his best an’ kindest regards tae ye an’ the duke fan I saw ye. As for anither kirk…that I dinna ken, nor whaur he gaed.”

“I can hardly believe he didn’t tell
you
.”

“He thocht it was best.”

I let out a sigh and sipped at my tea. I didn’t like it, but I thought I probably did understand. The past being what it was, and with Alasdair having at one time thought I was in love with Iain, I was pretty sure I knew what Iain was thinking—that Alasdair and I needed to establish our new life together without any possible relational issues, past, present, or future.

The thought that I might actually never see him again was a blow. But I began to recognize in Iain’s decision the loving sacrifice of one friend for another.

I had been paying no attention to the weather outside. But as it now fell silent again, I became aware that the storm had increased in intensity. The wind was blowing a fury. I heard no rain as yet, but a downpour seemed bound to erupt any second.

“I had better start for home,” I said, rising from the chair. “Otherwise I am going to be trapped by what looks like a nasty rain.”

“I dinna like tae see ye walkin’ back doon in this,” said Ranald. “But it luiks tae be a storm that, ance it breaks, it—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. A burst of light flashed in the windows. It wasn’t more than a second later when a mighty clap of thunder exploded. It seemed to rock the whole house on its foundation, though it may just have been my leaping out of my chair.

Instantly the skies emptied. Ranald’s slate roof echoed with the downpour, which the wind confirmed by slashing it against the windowpanes as if God were outside heaving bucketfuls of water on the house.

“I dinna think ye’ll be walkin’ doon the Bin onytime soon.” Ranald chuckled. “Wadna surprise me gien that blast hit up at the top o’ the Bin. I jist hope naebody took it intil their heids tae hike it today.”

I sat back in my chair and finished my cup of tea. No cozier place could have existed in the midst of such a violent storm than Ranald Bain’s warm stone cottage on the slopes of Crannoch Bin. Though I hadn’t planned to spend the whole day here.

“When ye’re ready, lass,” said Ranald, “I’ll drive ye doon tae the castle. But first perhaps ye’d consent tae playin’ a tune or twa.”

“Only if you will join me.” I smiled.

That was all the encouragement Ranald needed. He was into the next room in less than a minute, busily tightening his bow and tuning up his fiddle. I followed and sat down at his grandfather’s old harp, which I had grown to love almost as much as my own. We had played so much together by now that the music flowed between us. One of us would lead into a familiar tune, “Charlie Is My Darling” or “Lochnagar” or whatever it might be, and the other would simply follow. As one song ended, a few chords of the harp or a few runs up and down the neck of Ranald’s fiddle would lead almost of its own accord into another, until without even planning it we were both playing again. No experience can compare with playing with another whose music you know almost as intimately as you do your own, on two instruments whose sounds intertwine so effortlessly they seem that they are being played by a single master hand.

After an hour or so, we took a break, had another cup of tea and some oatcakes, then got out Ranald’s old book of Scottish tunes. I made him sit at the harp and play for me so that I could observe his progress on
my
chosen instrument. I had never attempted to give him “lessons,” so to speak, only enough pointers on technique to enable him to progress on his own. He had
music
within him, which was the most important ingredient of all. He would never be able to make the harp live in the same way Gwendolyn had. But considering his late start and that it had been only about two years since I had restrung his harp and he had begun playing, he was doing exceptionally well. So well, in fact, that I had already begun to hatch a plan in my mind for us to put together a program of Scottish music, not only with my harp and his fiddle, but also with our two harps playing together along with the ladies. In the meantime, I had begun to arrange a few pieces for that purpose.

For today, however, after a short time on the harp, Ranald returned to his violin and we resumed as before.

The rain continued to pour down. By midafternoon I realized I needed to get back, letup in the weather or not. I didn’t like Ranald having to drive me down the hill, but there was little other choice. It wasn’t merely the thought of getting soaked if I tried to walk, but the fact that every possible route between Ranald’s and the castle would by now be a stream rather than a path.

Music always seeks its own rhythms and cadences, especially melancholy Celtic music. The melodies and harmonies in Ranald’s cottage began to ebb, then gave way to a prolonged diminuendo that slowly faded. Our fingers obeyed the invisible impulses that had been guiding them, and both instruments fell silent.

I drew in a deep sigh of contentment and sat listening to the rain pounding on the roof. God’s music replaced mine and Ranald’s as a fitting coda to the afternoon.

“Hae ye finished writin’ oot the music tae the wee lass’s sang?” asked Ranald at length.

“‘Gwendolyn’s Song’…not quite,” I replied. “As often as I listen to the recordings, I cannot altogether succeed in replicating it on a page that captures the sound. A magic existed in those tiny fingers that may never be heard any other way than with Gwendolyn’s own recordings.”

“She was aye God’s gift tae us a’.”

“I cannot help wondering what might have been—for her and Alasdair—had she lived.”

“Aye. But the Lord sent yersel’ tae the duke in his time o’ need. Wi’oot yer comin’, the lass may ne’er hae kennt her daddy. An’ noo ye’re there tae gie him the love that she can only noo gie him in his memory.”

“Why is life so sad, Ranald?” I asked.

“’Tis in sadness we turn till oor Maker.”

“Why only then?”

“It isna
only
then. But the times o’ sadness an’ loss are particularly weel suited tae the buildin’ o’ the kin’ o’ character God’s tryin’ tae get intil us. Ye lost yer first man, I lost my Maggie an’ my Winny, the puir laird lost his first wife an’ noo his dochter. But we a’ are growin’ intil sons an’ dochters o’ the Father, an’ that’s aye the best o’t.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said thoughtfully. “And I hope Alasdair will recognize God’s work in him and around him, too. I want him to be complete in every way.”

“Gie the lad time, Marie. God’s nae through wi’ the makin’ o’ him yet, nor wi’ me or yersel’, for that matter. As lang as God’s at wark, we can trust him wi’ those we love. Oor eyes dinna see tae the end o’t.”

Again we sat listening to the rain. I fell into a reverie and began to doze.

Suddenly out of the silence came a pounding on Ranald’s door. It was so unexpected and loud, it startled me awake and straight up in my chair. In the middle of weather like this, who could it possibly be?

Ranald leaped to his feet and hurried to the door.

There under the overhang of the porch, in his greatcoat and dripping oversized hat, stood my husband! Behind him next to Ranald’s garage sat the BMW.

“Alasdair!” I exclaimed as I came toward him.

“Duke…welcome tae ye!” said Ranald. “Come in oot o’ the doonpour—ye’ve come tae rescue yer lass, I’m thinkin’.”

Alasdair took off his hat and coat and hung them on the peg outside the door.

“Rescuing my lass was only one of my errands,” he said as he followed us inside, “though I am glad to see you safe and warm,” he added to me. “I would have come up sooner or later anyway had the rain not let up. I know you love to walk in the rain, but this kind of weather is where I put my foot down!”

“I wasn’t about to attempt it in this!” I laughed. “But what do you mean, ‘anyway’?”

“Is Miss Forbes with you?” asked Alasdair.

“Alicia…no. Why?”

“She’s been gone from the castle for hours, probably about as long as you. I made several calls; I even drove over to the market in town, but no one’s seen her. I don’t know why, but for some reason I became worried. Call it premonition. I decided to drive up here, hoping she was with you, and to rescue you from the rain at the same time.”

“No, I haven’t seen her since I left the castle,” I said, concerned. “That was hours ago. What happened?”

“Nothing, maybe,” replied Alasdair. “I don’t know. I just had a funny feeling. I got home and saw your note and thought nothing more until lunchtime. Usually if you are gone, she asks me if I would like her to fix me something. One or the other of you is always pestering me about food. It’s a wonder I don’t weigh three hundred pounds, Ranald,” he added with a laugh, “the way these women keep trying to shove food into me like stevedores loading a grain ship!”

“Just trying to keep you happy, my dear,” I said. But when I glanced at Ranald, he wasn’t smiling.

“I assumed she was with you, until Nicholls asked me if I’d seen her and said he
didn’t
think you and she had gone together. The rain had just begun, and after an hour I became concerned. After two hours I went out to search for her…and here I am.”

Before either Alasdair or I had time to conjecture further, Ranald was hurriedly brushing past us on his way to the door, throwing off his shoes as he went. As he opened it, a rainy blast flew in at us. He grabbed his rain boots and sat down on the bench just outside his door and tugged them onto his feet.

“Come, Duke…lass!” he called through the open door. “We must be awa’. We haena a moment tae lose!”

By the time Alasdair and I walked to the door and I had my coat on, Ranald was already bundled up and hurrying in the downpour toward the BMW.

“Ye’ll hae tae drive, Duke!” he called back to us. “We haena time tae get the auld Maestro warm.”

We ran after him. I jumped into the backseat. The two men sat in front, and we were soon creeping down the narrow gravel road back toward the main road as fast as the dreadful conditions would allow.

“Where are we going, Ranald?” I asked from behind. “Why are you so worried? Is it about Alicia?”

“Findlater, lass,” Ranald replied “’Tis aye the lass I’m feared for. I only pray we are nae too late.”