Part 1

June 1924

1

A Boy and a Bird

Whales Reef, Shetland Islands

On a late afternoon of a surprisingly warm day, a small lad sat on a large stone with the blue of sky and water spreading out before him. The air was full of motion, but for this one of Shetland’s minor islands the wind was relatively light. The chair-rock of his perch jutted out of the ground near a high bluff overlooking the sea.

The boy lifted his face to the fragrant breeze as he watched the birds soaring above. He loved the birds, and he loved the sea. But today that love was tinged with sadness.

He looked beside him. On a tuft of sea grass lay a tiny bird with a broken wing.

The boy was only seven, but the music of the angels stirred within him. He valued life in all its forms. From almost the moment he was born he possessed an uncanny connection to the animal kingdom. It was not merely that he loved animals. This boy understood them far beyond the usual capacity of humans to comprehend their winged and four-footed brethren of creation.

By the time he was three, his father and mother avowed that he knew what every dog around him was thinking. With searching eyes he looked at the infinitely fascinating nonhuman faces of the creatures around him. By age four he walked among the sheep and cows and ponies his father tended for the laird as if he were one of them. He talked to them too. His strange communications, however, came in whispers, gestures, and otherworldly noises whose subtleties were known only to the animals. A word or sign from the boy brought instant obedience from any of the laird’s half-dozen sheepdogs, as well as their own Shep, the boy’s constant companion now resting at his feet.

A brief gust blew up from the cliff face in front of him, ruffling the tiny bird’s feathers and sending the boy’s carroty thatch into a momentary flurry. He steadied himself on the stone and breathed deeply.

Those living beings most at home here—who had been here the longest and doubtless the first to settle in this place—were those who had made peace with this land of wind. The continuous currents were sometimes their ally, often a stimulus, occasionally a friend . . . but never an enemy. Wind was necessary to their survival, whether generated by the earth spinning on its axis or by their own powerfully created musculature.

These wind-lovers were the birds.

The winged species of the Shetlands, at once exceptional yet commonplace, were majestic and colorful in their diversity. For sheer quantity they seemed numerous as the sands surrounding these isolated islands in the middle of the North Atlantic. If the ancient parable was true that two were once sold for less than a penny, no one would now pay a penny for even a thousand of the gulls, thrushes, swifts, swallows, sparrows, finches, and bramblings that swarmed these moors, inlets, and rocky coastlines.

But earthly eyes do not always perceive eternal merit. Even the tiniest of these had worth for those who saw them as creatures imagined into being out of God’s fathering heart. The most insignificant of creatures—both birds and boys—had stories to tell.

Young Sandy Innes, son of the laird’s gamekeeper, had come upon the bird lying helpless and alone beside the rock. A pang seized his heart, for the tiny life was precious to him. That life, however, looked fragile and was ebbing away.

He knew the bird was dying.

With a single gesture to Shep behind him, he sat down on the rock. The dog had made no move since. The first impulse of Sandy’s boyish love was to stroke the feathery back. But he knew that doing so would frighten the poor tiny thing. He did not want it to die in fear, but in peace.

So he sat.

And waited.

A tear crept into his eyes as he gazed on the tiny creature beside him.

When he heard footsteps moments later, the boy turned. A tall figure was walking toward him.

The man saw the bird on the ground. He sat down on the thick grass with the bird between himself and the boy, the black-and-white form of his gamekeeper’s sheepdog motionless behind them.

No word was spoken for several minutes. Neither felt compelled to disturb the tranquility of the moor behind them and the sea before them.

“What are ye aboot, Sandy?” said the man at length.

“The wee birdie is dyin’,” replied the boy. His high voice was soft, tender, and unsteady.

“Yes . . . I see.”

“I wanted tae sit wi’ him so he wouldna be alone. I didna want him tae die wi’oot a body wi’ him.”

The man pondered the words. The only sounds were the breeze, which rose into an occasional swirl about their faces, and the gently splashing waves against the rocky shoreline below.

2

A Celt in the Making

It has been said that the defining characteristics of the Celt are deep emotion and an intuitive bond with the natural creation. The man and boy shared a common link to that ancient heritage. In the brief moments they sat together, they were drawn into oneness by the birthright of their prehistoric pedigree. The very loneliness of this island they called home, the wind surrounding them, the breaking waves of the sea, the cries of the gulls in the distance, even the faint odor of peat smoke drifting on the island breezes from the village, combined with the poignant broken creature-life between them to resonate in their hearts with the unspoken mysteries of life. The fullness of the hour pervaded their mutual Celtic consciousness.

It was the most natural thing in the world for the approach of death to stir the Celtic temperament. From the unknown antiquity of its pagan roots to the symbolism of the gospel brought to Scotland’s shores by Columba in the sixth century, the Celts were ever conscious that the everlasting cycle of life—a story affirmed by nature year after year—was always being renewed. And death was part of it.

The boy continued to stare at the bird. Though he intuitively sensed much truth hidden to those many times his years, death to him was yet a great unknown. Where did the life go?

He had not yet reached the age when clan lore would seize him with visions that had fired the imaginations of Scots boys for centuries. When that day came, he would dream of fighting as a tartan-clad warrior with his clan beside Robert the Bruce at Bannockburn or bonnie Prince Charlie on the fields of Culloden. Whether it meant victory as at Bannockburn or defeat as at Culloden, the honor of fighting for Scotland’s freedom was the same. Centuries of failed history had taught Celtic Scots to revere the glory of its fallen as well as its triumphant heroes. Even in defeat, its legendary men and women represented the nobility of the Scottish character and the spirit of its nation.

On this day, however, the boy’s heart was tender toward this tiny fallen creature. His was the grief of the Celt for whom death, whether in the field of battle or on a lonely moor, was honorable.

Again the man broke the silence. He sensed the high stirrings of the moment. He was one acquainted with the Eternal Now of inner quietude. He felt the lad’s heart and shared his sorrow.

“Ye’re often alone yersel’, laddie,” he said.

“Not a bit o’ it, sir. I hae the wind an’ the sea an’ a’ the animals for my frien’s. There’s yer sheep an’ ponies an’ my daddy’s cows, an’ a’ the birds on the island. Hoo can a body be alone wi’ such life aboot?”

The man smiled. Spoken like a true Celt, he thought to himself.

“Weel, wee Mannie,” he said, “there’s mair wisdom in that head under yer shock o’ red hair than most has any idea. I’ll bide wi’ ye an’ yer wee friend.”

This time the silence remained for some time. No more words were needed. The hearts of this boy and this man had joined in care for the fallen creature between them.

They would remain special friends for the rest of their lives. Henceforth, whenever they met and a quiet smile passed between them, their thoughts would stir with reminders of this day.

3

Shared Passing of Life

After some time, another figure approached.

Book in hand, a young woman came toward the man, boy, dog, and bird.

Observing the scene and drawing toward it with slowing step, she felt something momentous at hand. She did not speak, yet felt no reluctance to join the silent gathering. Though a stranger to the island, she sensed that her presence would be welcome.

The girl sat down a few feet away. At first glance, her age would have been difficult to determine. She was not tall, probably an inch or two above five feet, and of such a childlike countenance that a hasty observer might have taken her for fifteen. The expression of peace in her eyes, however, spoke of maturity beyond the teen years. She was, in fact, a few months into her twenty-second year.

The man turned and smiled. He did not know her, but he knew the look in her eyes.

“We are helping this little bird die in peace,” he said serenely.

She smiled and nodded. This was no season for words. Like him, she was acquainted with the Great Silence.

After perhaps twenty minutes a soft moan sounded from the dog. His dog-soul felt a change. The boy’s attention was riveted on the tiny form on the grass. He saw a slight flutter. The next moment it was over.

The boy stared down for another few seconds. Liquid grief glistened in his eyes. He blinked hard, then at last stood.

The man reached into his pocket and dug out a small coin. He reached up and handed it to the boy.

“This is for ye tae remember the day, Sandy,” he said. “Ye canna spend it for a sweetie in Mistress Macpherson’s shop. ’Tis a wee token tae keep. I want ye tae tell me one day when ye ken what it means.”

The boy took the coin, looked down at it a moment where it lay in his palm, then pocketed it. He turned and gazed into the man’s eyes.

“Shall we bury the wee birdie, Sandy?” asked the man.

“’Tis naethin’ mair tae be done,” the lad replied. “God will take care o’ it noo.”

The boy turned and walked away across the moor. The sheepdog jumped up and bounded away after him.

Man and girl were left alone. Neither wanted to spoil the mystical moment.

At length the young woman rose also and walked away toward the village. The man remained, a dead sparrow at his feet, staring out from the bluff over the sea, contemplating many things.