Treasure of the Celtic Triangle (21 page)

“I know, Percy. You couldn’t hurt a fly if you wanted to. You’re the most considerate person I’ve ever met. That’s what makes it hurt so much to remember how I used to be.”

“How so?”

“I had eyes for you for all the wrong reasons. I thought you were too cute for words. And I was tired of Colville and Courtenay. You were a challenge. But I never saw the real person you were. I didn’t care about all that back then. I was shallow and selfish. I thought I could turn the head of any boy in the world. Then I met you. You were different. But I still had no eyes to see it. And look where it got me,” she added with a ironic laugh in which the sadness was all too evident.

“I don’t know, Rhawn,” said Percy. “You are
growing
, like Steven was talking about. You are becoming God’s live meadow. Maybe it took some heartbreak to get you there. Don’t forget—or maybe you never knew, I don’t know—I was sent to my Uncle Roderick and Aunt Katherine for the first time because my parents were desperate.”

“Yes,” Rhawn smiled. “Florilyn told me all about you back then. She didn’t like you much at first.”

Percy roared with laughter. “The feeling was mutual!” he said.

“Then five years later, the two of you were engaged.”

“And now are un-engaged,” said Percy. “An altogether strange sequence of events. But whatever you think you were, I was probably worse. You didn’t know me then. I was a petty thief. I was in trouble with the Glasgow police. I had the best parents in the world, but I despised them. It still brings tears to my eyes to remember what I put them through. When my father finally put his foot down and sent me here, I thought he had sent me to prison. I was rebellious and conceited and self-centered. Yet somehow God used all that to wake me up inside. Look … they’ve reached the opposite side of the meadow! From here, I would say Steven had her by at least two lengths.”

Neither spoke for a minute as their two horses walked gently across the grass.

“How does God wake people up, as you say?” asked Rhawn at length.

“By using the circumstances of their lives,” answered Percy. “At least that’s what he did with me. I found myself in new and strange—and at the time unpleasant—circumstances. Those circumstances forced me to start thinking about things.”

“What kind of things?”

“I suppose mostly the kind of person I wanted to be. And about who God is and whether he had something to say about the way my life went.”

Again Rhawn was silent. She was obviously thinking. “May I ask you something, Percy … something serious, I mean?”

“Of course. You know you can.”

“There’s really no one else I can talk to about … you know, about what happened … about my son. Everyone around here … even Florilyn—I know what they think. But you, Percy … I
think
that you don’t care about all that. I think you accept me … just as a person who knows she made a mistake but who wants to be better.”

“That is exactly how I see you.”

“I want to wake up. I’m trying to wake up. Florilyn’s given me some books to read where the people are thinking about God all the time. But it’s hard to wake up. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I was like a mountain of rock for too long. Maybe I can never become a growing meadow.” She turned away, blinking hard trying to keep away the tears.

“Anyone can grow, Rhawn. Surely you know that. If you want to grow, you will. It’s just that most people don’t care about being different than they are. What they
are
is good enough. But for people like you and me, who have been through some scrapes in life, what we were
isn’t
good enough. We want to be
better
. At least I did. And you’re telling me that you do. So you
will
be. You
are
growing, Rhawn. I can see the change in you.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Rhawn wiped at her eyes and smiled a melancholy smile. “There were people who thought you were my son’s father,” she said at length.

“I know.”

“I’m afraid I allowed them to think so. I’m sorry, Percy. It was an awful thing for me to do.”

“All is forgiven.”

“I wish you were Aiden’s father. I mean … not because of—you know … not because of
that
. I just mean … you would be a good father, Percy. You wouldn’t desert me and leave me alone.”

Again Rhawn was quiet. “That’s what I wanted to ask you, Percy,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

“Whether to say something … whether to confront him … whether to force him to tell what happened.”

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way,” said Percy. “I mean, it is an awkward question to ask, but I’m sure you knew that there was talk. You
do
know who the father is?”

Rhawn nodded. “But I don’t know how long to be silent. My son needs a father, a family, grandparents and cousins. But he would hate me if I told who he was. I want him to
want
to be a father.”

“You are in a difficult position. You’re right—to try to force him might make him all the more antagonistic.”

“But how long do I wait, Percy? I’ve been waiting three years.”

“Have you prayed about what to do?”

“Why would God listen to someone like me? You know what I’ve been.”

“God doesn’t care what we have been. He only cares what we are becoming. The growing meadow, remember?”

Rhawn forced a smile. “It’s hard to believe that God cares about me,” she said.

“He doesn’t just care about you—he loves you … as his daughter. Just think how you love your little son. That is only the tiniest measure of how God feels about us. We are really and truly His children, and He is the best Father in the world.”

“Do you really think God loves me?”

“Oh, Rhawn—He loves you more than you can imagine!”

Rhawn glanced away. This time the tears came. By the time she was herself again, Steven and Florilyn were riding back to join them, laughing and talking gaily.

T
HIRTY
-T
WO

The Search Begins

O
n the morning following their ride into the hills, Percy sought his aunt after breakfast. “I think I would like to begin looking through Uncle Roderick’s papers and things, Aunt Katherine,” he said. “Whatever it is I am to do, it won’t get done unless I make a beginning.”

“Of course, Percy. What may I do to help?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I should start in his study, if you don’t mind.”

“You may consider it your own office, for as long as you like,” replied his aunt. “It’s not locked. You may come and go as you please. There are a few keys on a ring. I don’t even know what all of them are for. One I believe is to the safe I mentioned. Shall we go upstairs and have a look?”

Percy walked up the main staircase and followed his aunt into the late viscount’s study. He glanced about fondly. It was just as he remembered it. The last time he had been in this office, his uncle had been giving him his blessing to marry his daughter.

“Here are the keys I told you about,” said Katherine, taking a small ring from a hook on the wall behind the door. “There is the safe next to Roderick’s gun cabinet. You will want to go through the desk, of course, and the file drawers over there in the cabinet on the far wall. I can’t think what you will find. But perhaps it is as you say, just putting Roderick’s papers in order.”

She turned to leave, then hesitated and looked back to where Percy stood in the middle of the room. “I confess,” she added with a smile, “I know this must be daunting for you, but I am relieved. I have little taste for paperwork. No one enjoys going through a loved one’s personal effects after they’re gone. But if you have questions or need my help, please ask.”

Percy nodded, and his aunt left him.

He wandered about the small room, looking about thoughtfully, then sat down in his uncle’s chair behind the large desk. What
was
he to do, he wondered.

Slowly he began to open one drawer of the desk at a time. Nothing of possible significance caught his eye—only the assorted paraphernalia of years … perhaps even centuries. How old was this desk? How many of these old tools, knives, fasteners, keys, pencils, pens, sealing wax, nails, screws, matches, tape, and the memorabiliac gadgetry and odds and ends that inevitably accumulate in a desk had preceded his uncle? As interesting as some of the old items might be, there was certainly nothing among this miscellany of flotsam and jetsam to offer any clues.

He opened the two larger bottom drawers. They were filled with files, folders, and envelopes, mostly yellowed with age and few displaying labels or the least hint of their contents. It would take forever to go through them all. And for what purpose? Surely his uncle had left nothing in plain view like this that would connect him to his brief former life in Ireland so long ago.

Percy rose and walked to the safe. His natural curiosity was aroused by the mere presence in the room of something that spoke so obviously of secrets. It sat on the floor to a height of approximately three feet, and in width about half that.

He knelt to one knee and tried several of the keys on the ring until he found one that turned in the lock. He grasped the handle and turned. A dull muffled clank sounded from within the mechanism. The mere sound sent a thrill of mystery through him. There was no safe in his parents’ home in Glasgow. Who had safes but wealthy people for the purpose of protecting their riches? He had never actually looked inside a safe in his life.

Slowly he swung back the massive iron door. What he was expecting it would have been difficult to say. But gazing inside the small vault turned out to be a disappointment. The thing was half empty. A few large envelopes lay on the bottom. Shelves contained assorted papers. Several locked drawers were built into the lower quadrant of the right side. He tried the smaller keys of the key ring but none fit. Judging by the rest of the safe, they were probably empty. Whatever might be inside them, it would have to wait until a later time.

He had hoped perhaps to discover a stash of 100-pound notes or a silver-lined box full of diamond and pearl and ruby jewelry, or some other mysterious treasure. He cast a last look about the uninteresting contents then closed the door.

He rose, walked to the window, and stood staring out at the countryside below. From deep within the subconscious recesses of his brain, words from his grandfather drifted hazily up into his memory. He tried to remember the occasion … his father and grandfather had been talking seriously about spiritual things. He hadn’t been interested himself. He was probably ten or eleven at the time.

Suddenly now from out of the past, as if bringing a message for this moment in his life, they returned with crystalline clarity.

“When you are uncertain of the course you are to pursue,”
he could hear his grandfather saying almost as if he were sitting in his uncle’s chair behind him,
“get quiet before God. Center down, as our Quaker brethren like to say. Then listen. The still, small voice will speak. But you must learn to hear it. You must attune yourself to its soft and subtle rhythms within your spirit. The inner voice is never loud. You will not receive its promptings through the newspaper headlines, but as it were through some tiny printed message embedded deep in the paper. The Spirit speaks with nudges, not proclamations. These it takes years of practice to learn to hear. They emerge out of your own thoughts … yet they are distinct from your own thoughts. Even that distinction, however, is subtle, oh so very subtle. The enemy will seek with his wiles to ensnare you into thinking that your desires and ambitions, couched in the thoughts that come, are God’s thoughts. They may be, though it takes great wisdom to know how to divine between them. Always be wary of justifying your own ambitions. The still, small voice most often nudges you to lay down your ambitions, not pursue them. Until the desires of your heart emerge out of the wellsprings of God’s will, your own ambitions may be your enemy. It is only after they are laid on the altar of relinquishment, and there die into the will of God, that your ambitions become your strength. So lay aside your own ambitions, then listen … listen to the heavenly nudges. As they grow within you, move one step at a time into the light of their leading
.”

Percy found himself wondering how old his father was at the time. What had been the circumstances that had prompted the discussion with his grandfather? He could not imagine his father wrestling with personal ambition. Though it had taken him some years to recognize it, his father had been what seemed such a rock of spiritual wisdom. Yet some uncertainty in his life must have occasioned the conversation that he now found himself recalling.

But none of that mattered. The words had come today for him. Percy stepped back from the window and slipped slowly to his knees.

Spirit of God
, he prayed quietly,
I am exactly at such a moment. I don’t know what course to pursue. I do not even know if I have any ambition or will of my own in the matter. I simply don’t know what I am to do or how I am to do it. I ask for Your help, Your guidance. Speak to me, Lord. Show me what You would have me do
.

He remained where he was, silent, listening, for perhaps five minutes. Finally he rose with a deep sigh of peace and again stood at the window. Far below in the distance, in the direction of the village, he could just make out the roof of the old Barrie cottage.

With the sight came an inner impulse to visit it again. Was this a quiet nudge in response to his prayer? What could the Barrie croft possibly have to do with his mission for his uncle?

Again his grandfather spoke from out of the past: “
Listen to the heavenly nudges and move one step at a time
.”

Percy drew in a long breath then turned from the window and left the office in search of his aunt. If one step had been shown, he would take it.

Percy began to descend the main stairway, glancing about him. As he had been so many times in this house, he was again arrested by the gallery of portraits, some centuries old, of his uncle’s ancestors. The compelling face of his uncle Roderick’s grandmother above the landing halfway down the stairs was usually what drew the eyes and demanded attention, as if she were the matriarch presiding over the entire family legacy, past, present, and future. On this day, however, Percy found his eyes drifting to the other women, some young, some old, whose images hung between the ground and first floors. He stood staring at each, one at a time, for several seconds. Slowly began to dawn upon him a recognition of familiarity that all the women had in common. Was it the eyes … the nose … the forehead … the chin … the prominent cheekbones? He could not tell. The dresses were different, the styles of portraiture distinctive as having been painted in different eras. Yet some indescribable feature in every face was common between them.