Wayward Winds (2 page)

A Mystery and a Prayer

1908

A woman with hair of pure white sat regarding the top limbs of pines as they swayed against a grey sky. The day was a melancholy one, and her mood grew reflective.

The plain wooden rocker slowly creaking beneath her motion carried even more years in its joints than she. Her days were many, and they had carried out their work well. Out of her eyes shone the peace one's season upon the earth is meant to produce. An ancient Bible rested open in her lap.

Her gaze, however, had drifted up from its pages a few moments ago, through the window, and out upon the wooded Devonshire countryside in which sat the so-called cottage she had always called home.

It was in truth far more than what is typically meant by the word, but was rather at one time the gamekeeper's two-story lodge of a sizable estate in southwestern England, constructed sometime in the early eighteenth century. Though it bordered the estate and had once been numbered among the manor's holdings, the cottage was no longer listed among the assets of the present lord of the manor of Heathersleigh Hall, Sir Charles Rutherford, descendent of the long Devonshire line of ancient name.

The old couple who occupied the cottage had for years been considered by many of the locals an odd lot. Children in Milverscombe a generation earlier had feared the very name
McFee
, and were careful not to venture too far west of the village. The years since, however, largely because of their close friendship with those at the Hall, had
made the two aging McFees among everyone's favorites, in no small measure due to the spiritual esteem in which they were held.

The onetime eccentric reputation of the pair was no doubt enhanced by the fact that through the years the history of the strange property in the woods had been clouded in obscurity. It was a cottage, like the great Hall to which it had once been connected, that possessed secrets no one alive was aware of, not even its present owners. There were those who harbored suspicions. But as yet they had been unable to obtain the proof they sought. And as they lived in the city and did not have free access to the region, they had to bide their time until suitable opportunity presented itself. Notwithstanding such stories, rumors, and unanswered questions, many of the less fortunate in the nearby environs were indebted to the McFees more than was generally known.

The woman in the chair was not contemplating such things, for she knew nothing of them. Her grandmother's Bible lay open on her apron to the second Gospel. She had just read the words, “Unto you it is given to know the mystery of the kingdom of God: but unto them that are without, all these things are done in parables: That seeing they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may heed, and not understand . . .”

A warm, gentle rain fell, preventing work this afternoon in her expansive flower beds which spread out from the white plastered walls of the cottage in all directions, by now half surrounding the barn where her husband spent a good deal of his time. Her mind, however, was not occupied with the growing things of her garden. Her thoughts and meditations were full instead with the greatest growing thing in the universe: the
human
plant, created in the image of the One who made flowers and people, cottages and galaxies all together.

A persistent breeze had kicked up a few minutes earlier. It drew her attention to the treetops, and now carried the drops of rain sideways in occasional splatters against the panes of her window. A more vigorous storm seemed likely. Her husband had commented over tea an hour ago that a windy night was in store for the downs. He was now busy outside preparing for it.

The sound of the droplets and the movement of the pines brought to her mind inexplicable reminders of Sir Charles and Lady Jocelyn's daughter.

How well she recalled the day nine years ago when the young mistress of Heathersleigh had been with them for lunch at the cottage. They had tried to explain the things of God to her. But she had been one of the unseeing . . . the unhearing. For now all remained in parables.

But it would not always be so. The Lord's voice had broken through into the soul of Master Charles. So too would his daughter one day hear divine whisperings into her own soul.

With such thoughts, prayer was not far behind.

“Lord,”
whispered Maggie McFee,
“I
pray that you would keep the hand of your care on dear Charles and Lady Jocelyn. You've done such
a great work in their lives and in their family in recent years, and Bobby and I are privileged to have been part of it.”

She paused briefly.

“But
now, Lord,”
she went on in a moment,
“it
's her daughter you've brought to my mind this day. What gusts will be needed to turn the sails
of the girl's ship back to the home of your Father's heart?”

As those of the faith's humble folk often are, her entreaties were unintentionally poetic. Because her heart spoke, she did not pause to consider the prophetic bent of her words.

“Send the breath of
your Spirit upon her,”
she continued,
“even as you
are now breathing upon the countryside with your stormy rains. Remind dear Amanda where she came from, and where we
are all going in the end. Send your flurries, Lord
—blow the fog from her brain . . . and carry her home
.”

The elderly woman fell silent.

The simple prayer had roused her faith. She knew the wayward winds in the girl's life would give way to the Spirit's homeward currents in due time.

“Open her eyes,”
she added,
“to understand the mystery.”

 1 
House of Light

Alone figure made his way up a rocky, treacherous path to a flat plateau, on whose meager soil grew a thin layer of green grass overlooking an angry sea.

The site was solitary and had been chosen for precisely that reason.

Late afternoon winds whipped clouds and water into a fury together. The latter remained blue yet a while longer. Its incoming waves pounded noisily on the rocks of the shoreline, sending the white spray of final impact crashing halfway up the jagged bluff. Sky and sea would both doubtless be black within hours as the impending storm drew steadily nearer the coast.

Behind a red-roofed house and two or three outbuildings rose the whitewashed column of a slender lighthouse, built to keep ships off the shoals of North Hawsker Head on the eastern reefs of the Yorkshire moors. Recently, however, it had been turned toward a more sinister and clandestine purpose.

Slanting flurries threatened to blow the walker into the North Sea below. But he won his brief battle against the elements, reached the top, and made for the house, where dry clothes, warm fire, and stout Irish ale awaited him.

He opened the door and entered ahead of a hearty gust from the squall.

“Is the dinghy secure?” asked a voice when the door was shut.

“Ay,” answered the newcomer, “but the nor'easter'll be down upon us er' midnight, I'll warrant. 'Tis soaked I am from the water an' spray, but the wee craft'll ride it out safely.”

As the Irishman went in search of fresh attire, the conversation in progress in the lounge continued. The subject was not of particular interest to him anyway. Doyle McCrogher had been hired because of his knowledge of boats and lighthouses. He also knew the peculiarities of this stretch of coastline, its tides and weather patterns, its caves and currents and hidden shoals, better than any local, it was said, for a hundred miles. Why this was so, his employers had not paused to inquire, for he was a native of Wexford on St. George's Channel in southern Ireland. But McCrogher's reputation as a practical, mechanical man familiar with the ways of earth, sea, and sky was enough for them.

The strange and obscure politics of the new century mattered nothing to the Irishman. If he was well fed and well paid, and his pantry kept supplied with Guinness, his loyalties could be bought and he could keep his mouth shut. Thus far he had remained silent.

“You were wise to postpone the meeting,” commented a woman's voice as McCrogher disappeared. “The sea would have been far too dangerous.” She was the only female among three or four men, appearing mid-fiftyish, tall, robust of build, and with a commanding countenance. “When do you now expect the count?” she asked, the merest hint of forgetfulness in her speech betraying her national roots, though England had been her home for years.

“When the weather clears and the seas calm,” answered her counterpart, a man of approximately the same age, whose tongue could not have given more perfect representation to the Yorkshire dialect of his upbringing. From the thin grey moustache to the mode of expression to the manner in which he prepared his tea, the acknowledged leader of this small enclave was to all appearances and in all ways external an Englishman. What was not immediately apparent from his mere appearance was his subtly powerful, almost hypnotic personality, which was able to sway the minds of others to his purpose. His allegiances, like the woman's, lay elsewhere. “Probably next week,” he added.

“I do not know whether I shall be able to get north again so soon,” she said.

“Do not trouble yourself. This storm has set our plans back a few days, but there will not be a great deal of substance to discuss. It is chiefly an opportunity to see how effective McCrogher is in bringing our colleagues ashore, and whether the activity is noticed. This delay concerns me, however. We cannot afford to be at the mercy of the weather and turbulent seas. In any event, the real work will come later.”

A sudden blast of driving rain against the windowpanes brought a temporary lull to the conversation.

“It would appear McCrogher's northeaster has arrived well before midnight,” commented now a third member of the company, a London painter in his late thirties who was not on his way to fame and fortune by virtue of the brush. A philosophical man, his associations in certain shadowy art and literary circles had stimulated more interest in recent years in the winds of revolution than in flowers and fruit on canvas. He had traveled extensively in Russia and Germany—by what financial means none of his associates quite knew—had become fluent not only in their languages but also in the currents of change blowing everywhere in the east, and had returned to his native England with strong views he deemed best to keep to himself except in these select circles.

The pounding of rain upon the tile roof put the English among them in the mind for tea.

Gradually they rose and wandered to the kitchen. Fresh water was boiled, and each prepared his or her preferred drink.