The Inheritance Page 4

  It had been known for generations simply as the Muckle Stane—the Great Stone. David’s memories drifted once more back through the years.

  ———

  The boy’s father found his son asleep at the foot of the stone several hours after his flight from school. Miss Barton’s cries after him had been heard by enough of the village wives, busy with their morning laundry, that soon the whole island knew what had happened. Miss Barton’s walk out to the Auld Hoose during the school’s dinner break was witnessed by most of them as well. Subtle divisions were already infiltrating the close-knit community over the strange teachings and weird conjurations—some of the more practically minded dared go so far as to call them occult enchantments—of the man and his wife, distant cousin to the schoolmistress, ensuring that sides would be joined over the affair. The gossip resulting from the commotion at the school had already begun fanning the flames of the heated controversy destined to tear the tiny hamlet apart with conflict, bitter feelings, and strife. The tragedy that would result would be felt for a generation.

  The chief sat down on the ground. The boy felt his presence and woke from his tearful sleep. His emotion had been spent, but the explosive incident rushed back into his memory. He gazed up into his father’s eyes where he found compassion mingled with sternness.

  “What are you doing out here when you should be in school, laddie?”

  “The tall lady was there, Papa. I canna bide her. She’s a witch lady. I didna want her touching me.”

  “Did she touch you, laddie?”

  “Aye, Papa. Miss Barton made us all sit in a chair and close our eyes. Armund cried when she chanted over him, but Miss Barton gave him a whack on the side of his ear and told him to be respectful. I didn’t want to cry. But I couldna bide the feel of the lady’s fingers on my head.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran away, Papa.”

  “She meant you no harm, laddie, nor Armund either.”

  “She said I was going to hell, Papa. She’s taller than any woman ought to be. And her speech is queer. Just the sound set me trembling.”

  “That’s because she’s from another part of the world, Son.”

  “It’s not that, Papa. She speaks in words no one can understand. She makes people do strange things. One of the girls fell off the chair and moaned and rolled on the floor. It’s barmy. She’s a witch, I know it.”

  “You mustn’t call any woman such a thing, laddie.”

  “She’s not a good woman. I’m not the only one afeared of her.”

  “Nevertheless, you were rude to run away. Miss Barton demands that you be disciplined. You have to set example for the other children.”

  The boy was silent and dropped his eyes. “Yes, Papa,” he said.

  “If you will apologize to Miss Barton and Sister Grace, you and I will have no more words about it.”

  “But I’m not sorry, Papa. Miss Barton tore up my drawing, and I didn’t want to sit in the chair or roll on the floor or say strange things.”

  “If you do not apologize to them, David, I will have to whip you myself.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Which will it be, David?”

  “I will not mind if you punish me, because I know you love me. I don’t think Miss Barton or Sister Grace like me.” He paused and drew in a halting but resolute breath. “I will take the whipping from you, Papa,” he added softly.

  ———

  Putting the memories of the past away again, David walked toward the monolith where he had taken refuge from Sister Grace, and what he was still convinced were her dark powers and contrivances.

  He stretched out his right hand and laid his palm against the rough surface. He stood a moment, then breathed a quiet prayer in the ancient tongue of the Scottish Highlands.

  A Dhe ar n-athraichean, cum agus dion do shluag anns an eilean seo le curam agus gradh. Gum biodh an aon eolas aca ort mar an Athair is a bha aig Criosda ort fhein. Agus gum biodh eolas agamsa oirbh, agus geill dhuibh, mar fhear-daimh umhail, fad mo re ’smo lo. Amen.*

  It was from no bondage to ritual that the young clan chief thus prayed for the island people under his charge. His encounter with the so-called Sister Grace had forever exorcised the demons of ritual and formula from his heart. No less superstitious a man dwelt on the island than David Tulloch. He was merely a traditionalist who loved the old ways and revered his proud heritage. Notwithstanding the impact of North Sea oil, if modernity had not quite swept the Shetland Islands entirely into its wake, it had made more inroads than young chief David Tulloch was happy with. As the Muckle Stane was the oldest reminder of humanity on the island, possibly with circuitous spiritual links back to St. Columba, or even St. Ninian himself, he would affirm the connection by the laying of hands on the memory of antiquity. Whatever symbols might have been carved into its surface, David drew from the stone the high import of the human quest to know the Almighty. He chose for it to mean more, perhaps, than had been intended.

  A few years after their conversation about the incident at school and the discipline that had resulted, father and son had made a happier pilgrimage, though equally solemn, to the hill of the monument. There the chief had taught his son the Chief’s Prayer he had just prayed.

  David went out every morning in a different direction, unplanned and random, not merely for the exercise, to greet his sheep, and because he loved every inch of this island, but also to contemplate the needs of the several hundred inhabitants who made Whales Reef their home. He did not always think of Armund and Sister Grace as he walked, though on most days he thought of his father. It was a complex relationship, that between David and the former chief, even if one that now occupied only David’s heart and mind since his father’s untimely passing. His father’s death and the haunting memory of Sister Grace and her husband more than anything had implanted into David’s consciousness the kind of leader he was determined to be. If the function of chief to the tiny clan of Tullochs was a ceremonial title of tradition, it was one he took seriously. He would serve his people and do his best for them.

  He continued on his way past the granite monument and down the northern slope of the Muckle Hill. The springy ground occasionally sank beneath his booted feet, squishing with brown peat water if he hit a low spot. Whether the waterlogged peat ever dried out, even in rare seasons of relative drought, until it was cut for fuel was doubtful.

  Periodically he arrived at the remnants of a dry stone dyke, climbed over or walked through where it was broken, and kept on. As the only cattle on the island were at the Auld Hoose and in the village, and as his own and his uncle’s sheep were free to meander where they pleased in search of grass, there had never been much need of fences on the island. The sheep paid no more heed to such boundaries than they did the rain.

  *God of our Fathers, keep and protect your people of this isle in your care and your love. May they know you as their own Father as Jesus knew you. And may I, their humble kinsman, know you, obey you, and be their faithful servant all my days. Amen. (Gaelic translation by John Angus Morrison)

  9

  Hats, Boots, and Whiskey

  ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND

  Stretch limousines weren’t exactly the status symbol in Scotland that they were in Houston. They were also harder to find.

  But the Texan who had flown into Aberdeen the night before was a man of fixed habits.

  Big habits.

  He did things his way. It didn’t take long after his first gusher at a youthful twenty-two to get used to the good life. He had been living large ever since. Limousines, expensive food, flashy clothes, and the best whiskey money could buy were as entrenched in his appetites as his Texas twang. Neither, however, was as deeply ingrained as he led people to believe. It was imperative to the persona he showed to the world that it thought him older than he was. He had an outsized mustache that along with his sideburns he’d tinged with hints of gray to help sell the illusion, together with his boisterous Texas bravado. He wore the st
ate’s stereotype with calculated ease.

  He wasn’t about to change his routine because of a trip overseas. When he traveled he always brought with him two hats, three pairs of boots, and four bottles of whiskey. The limos he had his advance people hire locally, whatever they had to do to find one. Today’s was supposed to be in front of the hotel at five minutes before six.

  For this trip, out of respect for Scottish excellence in the manufacture of what they called whisky, he’d left his own brand home. He had been to Scotland many times. It may have been a backward country in most respects, but in the distilling of spirits, the Scots were almost the equal of his stateside Tennessee brethren.

  It wasn’t just that a limo more comfortably fit his six-foot-four, two-hundred-forty-pound frame. It was the status of knowing that heads turned as he passed. He was never happier than when at the center of attention. The moment he walked into a room, he wanted eyes watching and ears listening to him.

  Life was his stage. Though he was neither old nor a Lone Star native as he led his audiences to believe, he played his leading role with Texas flair and good ol’ boy panache. He made people believe what he wanted them to believe about him. And mostly it worked. His money, as they say, talked.

  Shortly after the limo pulled up in front of the Aberdeen Thistle, though it was too early for a standing-room-only crowd, he nevertheless treated the small audience milling about at that hour to a grand entrance. Exiting the elevator, he strode through the lobby like a galleon under sail. Doffing his white ten-gallon hat as he went, he was perfectly aware that every eye in the place was on him. His tan alligator-skin boots echoed sharply across the hardwood floor. He exited with a flourish, approached the limo, handed the young man holding its door a twenty-dollar bill—he always tipped in dollars—and was gone.

  North Sea oil meant this city was well-accustomed to Texans. But Jimmy Joe McLeod cut a wider swath than most. His grand entrance into the most expensive restaurant on Union Street a short time later was equally flamboyant.

  Three of the men who represented the top tier of the U.K. arm of his corporate conglomerate, and oversaw all his oil interests on this side of the Atlantic, were already waiting for him.

  “Where’s Thorburn?” asked Jimmy Joe, shaking hands with each of the men. Commandeering one of two available chairs, he settled his huge frame into it as if preparing to hold court.

  “He’s on his way, Mr. McLeod,” replied one in clipped Scottish brogue. “He just telephoned.”

  “Good, good! You fellas’ll have to excuse the early hour. Hope you don’t mind—still on Texas time. Hardly slept an hour. Been up since three.”

  A young waitress in black approached the table.

  “Hey, darling!” said the Texan, leaning back in his chair. “How ’bout a pot of the strongest black coffee you can get hold of. And rustle us up some steak an’ eggs while you’re at it.”

  “All we have is bacon and sausage, sir,” she replied timidly.

  “Bacon . . . ain’t that what you folks call ham?” said the big man, glancing around the table with a grin.

  “More or less, yes,” answered the man beside him.

  “Well, then, lots of that ham, and whatever else you got to go with them eggs. Just keep it coming, little lady! You boys ordered yet?”

  Seeing from the girl’s expression that she was overwhelmed and a little uncertain whether she had understood a fraction of the thick drawl, one of the other men motioned her toward him.

  “We will have five full-cooked breakfasts,” he explained. “Another man will be joining us shortly. Ask the cook for extra bacon on one of the plates, if you wouldn’t mind, for our guest . . . and coffee,” he added.

  “No bother,” she replied, smiling. “Thank you, sir. I wasn’t exactly sure—”

  “I understand.” He nodded with a reassuring smile.

  10

  The North Cliffs

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  Arriving at the North Cliffs, David slowed, walked toward the edge of the precipice, and gazed down the sheer drop of two hundred feet.

  By now it was after six. A light breeze off the sea met his face. Below, the gulls were raising a din with their shrill cries.

  He drew a deep breath of the tangy sea air. Whether it bore hints of rain to come, he couldn’t quite tell. Most of the islanders possessed an uncanny predictive gift. Today, however, the forecast eluded him.

  This was one of his favorite places on the island. He would never forget the first time he had come here. His knees nearly buckled as he clung to his father for dear life, inching closer to the edge until, with his father’s hands securely holding him, he had ventured a peek as straight down as he dared.

  That had been on his birthday walk at five or six, an annual practice, his father said, passed down from some grandfather or great-grandfather of former times. They came to the cliffs every year thereafter. His knees grew steadier, his gaze over the cliffs braver, his awareness keener of both the beauty and the danger of this northernmost extremity of the island.

  It wasn’t merely the high cliffs that were dangerous. In spite of today’s relative calm, the sea spreading out before him was the most treacherous constant of life for Shetlanders. No one who called these islands home was immune. Everyone knew someone who had been claimed by these waters.

  The reminder prompted yet one more image, intruding unbidden into his mind.

  ———

  The storm had risen with such sudden fury, none expected it. His friend Armund was only twelve at the time. But two of his father’s men had departed to follow the Fountain of Light, as the dubious movement of Sister Grace and her husband was called. If he was to bring in a catch this day, he needed his son at the nets along with the one faithful hand who remained. The strife that the movement had caused on the island was so poisonous that no man who was part of the Fountain would work on the boat of a man who was not. Among the fishermen, most had by now pledged their loyalty to the prophet and prophetess and boasted of the accompanying “signs.” Those few like Armund’s father who refused to do so were rudely ostracized from the rest of the fishing community.

  The church, indeed all of Whales Reef, was in an uproar. Arguments were constant on every corner, in every shop, and dominated conversation at the pub. Neighbor refused to greet neighbor. Families no longer spoke to their relatives. Lifetime friendships were severed. Many traveled to the stores in Lerwick rather than patronize the shops of former friends on the other side of the conflict. None of the Fountainites, as they were called, would break bread with those on the outside who, by their obstinate spiritual blindness, refused the divine revelations.

  David, also twelve, was too young to foresee the impact those few years would exercise on his future growth. He was old enough, however, to wonder why neither his father nor his uncle spoke out against the division tearing the community apart. The minister was the worst of the lot, fomenting resentments from the pulpit week after week and denouncing as agents of the devil those who did not acknowledge Brother Wisdom and Sister Grace as God’s chosen messengers. Why did neither chief nor laird speak out their opposition?

  The day’s storm erupted less than thirty minutes after the Bountiful, one of the smallest and oldest boats on the island, left the harbor with Armund and his father and eighteen-year-old Felix Kerr aboard. A morning meeting of the Fountain delayed all other departures. By the time the harbor filled with fishermen coming to their boats, the wind and seas had whipped into a frenzy. Most of the men clustered in small groups, a few remarking how providential the meeting had been in keeping them from the danger. A few clicks of the tongue and significant nods toward the angry sea, with the faint outline of the Bountiful at the horizon, said what most were thinking: that evil tidings befell those who denied the Light.

  Word somehow spread through the village and infiltrated the school that the Bountiful was in trouble. Knowing that Armund was with his father, David jumped from his seat and sprinted through t
he streets toward the harbor. Miss Barton’s cries after him were no more effectual on this day than they had been during Sister Grace’s visit.

  Arriving at the harbor, rain now falling in sheets, the outraged son of the chief looked about. Every boat was moored fast while their owners and crews stood peering into the spray and mist. A half dozen of them, including the father of his second cousin—owner of the largest craft on the island, the new, bright red boat he had recently purchased and christened in honor of his son—could easily have weathered the wind and waves and pulled the Bountiful to safety. But none made a move to help.

  “You must go after them!” the boy cried, rushing into the group of fishermen.

  “Take it easy, young David,” said Noak Muir, one of the Fountain’s new leaders. “Ye can see the weather’s against us.”

  “Your boats are big enough,” pleaded David. “Cousin Hallfred, please—you fished in worse than this with your new boat. My father told me you were in a terrible storm a month ago and didn’t take on a gallon of water.”

  The stoic man stood staring as if he’d heard nothing. He had never liked David’s father Angus and was not about to heed the pleadings of his son.

  “’Tis only Providence working its mysteries, laddie,” added Muir. “If they’d been at the meetin’, they’d be here safe wi’ the rest o’ us. Ye wouldna expect us tae raise our hand against the will o’ the Almighty, noo, would ye?”

  “It’s not God’s will for them to die!”

  “He takes His retribution on them that deny Him, laddie. Though he hasna yet joined us, surely yer daddy’s taught ye that much.”

  “They’ll sink if you don’t help!” cried David.

  “Mortal men such as us canna stand in the way o’ awful Providence, David lad,” put in Willie Gunn solemnly. “’Tis the Almighty himsel’ who’s brought the tempest tae bear witness tae the power o’ the Light an’ the futility o’ standing against it.”