Caledonia #2

The opening chapter of the historical novel - Caledonia. An intricate tapestry of two young women separated by three centuries but bound by mysterious circumstances. Hanna, a contemporary American, uncovers an ancestral link to Anna Isaac, a Jewess living in 17th century Scotland. In this inter-generational tale, both women experience romance, adventure, and tragedy as the reader witnesses them becoming more and more connected. This is the opening chapter of the book and the reader's introduction to Anna.

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One

Cheery Close

Edinburgh, Scotland – 1696

Not many ventured down the close. The dark passageway gave no hint that it led to a large square courtyard surrounded by four- and five-story houses. One of them was mine. The alley was named Cheery Close; probably someone’s poor attempt at humor. It was one of many that spread like tree branches off the main trunk, The Royal Mile.

The close, and especially the courtyard, was a sea of heaving mud. Some residents poked fun at Sir Isaac Newton’s recent findings that the watery muck reacted to the moon’s gravitational pull, like the great oceans. During the summer months, it oozed, reeked, and gobbled up the contents of chamber pots, decaying rodents, and anything foolish enough to step off the wooden planks that served as a walkway. Residents wondered if missing dogs weren’t lost forever at the bottom of the Sludge Sea. Mothers warned their children of the danger, if only to keep their shoes free of the filth. Relief came in the winter when the mud froze. Warnings were forgotten. Less waste and smell found its way past our scrubbed stone doorway.

Occasionally, a vendor would brave the close, carrying his bulging bag of goods on his back, singing his wares. Since the marketplace was nearby, a savvy hawker attracted far more customers there, than combing the labyrinth of Edinburgh’s closes and wynds. That’s why the loud knock on the wooden arched door was unexpected and jarring.

Forbidden from answering the door, I quickly ran up the staircase, hid behind the balustrade, and had a perfect view that would satisfy my curiosity.

Old Simon was entrusted with the comings and goings of the entire household, from overseeing the staff to welcoming guests. Managing the house should have been my mother’s responsibility, but she’d died giving birth to me.

Simon had been a part of my world for as long as I could remember. He was as much a part of my family as my father and my brother. He got his name because he looked ancient. I couldn’t remember when his three tufts of hair, which stuck out on the top and sides of his head, were anything but snow white. His humped back was a smaller version of Arthur’s Seat, a volcanic peak towering near Holyrood Palace. He never looked up, because he couldn’t. Instead, when my father spoke to Old Simon, or on the occasion of welcoming a guest, he made the effort by turning his head, looking sideways. The rest of the time, including when he talked to me, he stared at his brown leather mules

From my perch, I watched the visitor enter. Because he had to lower his head, so as not to hit the lintel, I only saw a mass of auburn curls and a brown woolen cloak. But when he’d safely crossed the threshold, the height and breadth of this man was amazing. Perhaps, his height was accentuated by standing next to Simon, who resumed his hunched-over posture.

“Sir, welcome to the home of Salomon ben Isaac. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Master Isaac. He’s expecting me.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Alain MacArthur.”

“May I tell him what matter of business?”

The Scot hesitated. Maybe he didn’t care to be questioned by a servant. Of course, he didn’t know Old Simon was much more than hired help. In my father’s absence, Simon handled simple business matters. But Mr. MacArthur answered politely. “I’m here on behalf of my father, Ian MacArthur of Clan MacArthur.”

“I will inform the Master of your arrival. May I take your cloak?”

Before the guest responded, I flew down the staircase, thankful my footsteps were silent, and hurried along the back hallway to the library. Because Simon had a pronounced limp, I would get there well before him.

No one knew the truth behind Old Simon’s gnarled leg. One story, gossiped among the house staff, claimed a much younger Simon had jumped out of the second story window of a lady’s bedroom when her husband had arrived home prematurely. Some told a much less exciting tale. It was simply a matter of his getting kicked by a stubborn garron. Others disagreed. They said it was the result of an altercation with an unruly kitchen boy, caught stealing a freshly baked loaf of bread. One day, I would ask Father.

I entered without making a sound. Father’s library was a large area with three floor-to-ceiling windows which flooded the room with long angular rows of light that grew as the day progressed. The other three walls were lined with bookcases bearing the heavy weight of Father’s precious tomes. Some believed, a man’s wealth was measured by the number of books he owned. If so, my father was the richest man in Scotland. But he did not see it that way. He measured wealth in knowledge and the virtue of a well-seasoned mind.

He often reminded me, “In dangerous times we could lose our home, your mother’s jewels, or our silver. “But,” he’d point his forefinger at his temple — “what’s up here cannot be taken from us.”

“Why would anyone want to take our things?”

“Ah, my dear, innocent daughter. When war comes, and the world is mad with hate, nothing is sacred. The only object of value we can carry to the ends of the earth is our knowledge.” Father usually ended serious discussions with sayings from the ancient scholars. “As the Talmud says, No one is poor except one who lacks knowledge.”

My father’s extensive library was legendary. In a country where schooling was encouraged for all, his was prized by scholars near and far. Hundreds of books lined the shelves in an order Father created; he could find any text in minutes. His collection included the great philosophers from the Greeks to the modern discourses of Locke and Descartes. Hidden away was the seminal work of Baruch Spinoza. His writing was forbidden since his expulsion from the Jewish community, but Father refused to part with any book. There was also a prized possession of Don Quixote written by a fellow countryman, Miguel de Cervantes. Father believed, but dared not to say it publicly, that Cervantes was a Converso. His masterful tale was filled with Jewish symbolism.

The sparsely furnished room contained what was necessary. In the center was Father’s large wooden desk covered with the tools of a businessman and scholar: quills, a knife for sharpening them, an ink bottle, and an hour candle. The only sound came from the sputtering peat in the fireplace which provided warmth rather than light, so a huge chandelier laden with beeswax candles illuminated the room. The combination of sweet honey, smoky peat, and peppermint tea, for Father’s indigestion, made this my favorite room in the house. Immersed in his ledgers, Father did not hear me enter. My shoes were silenced by the thick Turkey carpet.

Normally, I would have thought twice about interrupting. But today I had no time to be polite. “Father. Forgive me. There is an armed stranger to see you. He is in the front hall and says you are expecting him.” I had not seen any weaponry on the handsome stranger, but I had assumed he was armed. It was a good excuse to get Father’s attention.

He looked up slowly. His long white beard was carefully clipped and combed. On top of his head rested a black skullcap which partially covered a few silvery tufts. His rheumy eyes took a moment to refocus from his near-sighted work. Slowly, he put the quill in its holder and folded his hands.

“Does the stranger have a name?”

“It’s Alain MacArthur. He says he’s the son of—” I hoped my father would not notice the flush blossom on my face.

“Oh yes. Ian MacArthur’s son. I’m expecting him. Nice young man. Tell Simon to send him in.”

“Why is he here?”

“Never mind. I will tell you after our business is concluded. Let’s not be discourteous and keep our guest waiting. Run along.”

It bothered me when I was dismissed like a child. I was fifteen-years-old. Old enough to be married and run my own household. Father would often discuss his business with me. He said I had a mind for it and an unusual

sense of intuition. Occasionally, I would hear him mutter how he’d wished my brother Nathan shared such a gift, or would at least show some interest. So I was surprised I knew nothing of Alain MacArthur.

I turned to leave, when Old Simon entered. Alain MacArthur was ushered into the library by an anxious Simon eager to return to his many duties. I was thankful Father pretended it was the first time hearing about Mr. MacArthur’s arrival. Their short conversation provided a fortunate distraction so I could slip behind the Chinese silk screen which hid an indoor privy. I sat down on a wobbly stool next to the chamber pot, and leaned forward to adjust my eye to the small slit in the fabric. It was the perfect spot to eavesdrop. But if someone needed the pot, I was in trouble.

With cloak removed, a fair-skinned, slightly freckled Scot, dressed in traditional splendor, was revealed. His full length kilt swayed with his every movement. Part of his plaid draped over one shoulder, held in place with a silver brooch. The excess, tucked in his black leather belt, created a convenient pocket. His sporran slung off his hips and was centered between his legs. A short grey wool jacket fit snugly over his arms and chest. A basket-hilt broadsword, tied to a leather shoulder strap, hung level with his left hip. The last of his visible weaponry was a dirk, sheathed at his side under his belt. Alain MacArthur, Scottish warrior, with the telltale features of his Viking ancestors, commanded the room.

The difference between my father and his guest was startling. Father was quiet, unimposing, and preferred others to be the center of attention. His unassuming ways mirrored in business as well. Nothing in my father’s appearance indicated wealth or country. He did not dress with any distinguishing clan symbols. My family did not belong to a clan. The fine woolens he wore were practical for Scotland’s cold weather. As he peered over his spectacles, he looked every inch the scholar.

“Mr. MacArthur. Welcome to my home. How is your father?”

“He is well now. He suffered the flux last winter, and there were times we feared for him.”

“I’m pleased to hear he has recovered. When you return, give him my wishes for his continued good health. May I offer you some claret? You must be thirsty after your long trip.”

“Aye. Thank you.”

My father retrieved two goblets stored in the glass cabinet to the side of his desk. The cut glass sparkled like tiny stars created by the flames of the overhead candles. The stars disappeared once the red wine filled the glass.

“Will you honor my home, sir, and stay for our evening meal?”

“I do not wish to trouble you or your household.”

This was polite talk. Food and board were an expected courtesy. Survival in the harsh Scottish climate was dependent on the hospitality of others. While Mr. MacArthur’s polite refusal was part of the game, in the end, the visitor would accept.

“It is no trouble at all, but the least I could do for the son of an old friend. I will call for my daughter, Anna. She will take care of everything.”

At the unexpected mention of my name, I sat back so suddenly, the stool toppled. Not able to stop the momentum, I fell on the porcelain pot, breaking it. And while trying to disentangle my legs from my skirt, I kicked the screen. The framed silk came crashing down, revealing me sprawled unladylike on the floor.

In a moment, my father and the Highlander were by my side. Alain’s amused smile animated his scarred cheek. He might have been a warrior, but there was something gentle in his demeanor. He glanced down at the display in front of him. Flat on my back, my skirts twisted just above my knees. My hair, once secured with a pin, had come undone. Alain suppressed his laughter, evident on the edge of his quivering lips. Sitting up, I quickly pulled down my skirts and smoothed them over my knees. He offered a helping hand so I could regain my dignity.

My father was speechless, mortified by the actions of his foolish daughter. But he should not have been surprised to find me in my usual hiding place. He regained his composure as soon as I and my skirts were made proper. As if the entire incident had never happened, he turned to our guest and said, “Mr. MacArthur, may I introduce my daughter, Anna.”

By Sherry V. Ostroff

From: United States

Website: https://www.sherryvostroff.com/

Facebook URL: https://www.facebook.com/sherry1950