Melanie Jackson - Night Visitor

The outline of his shape was hazy, as if a veil of fog had been flung over him, but there was no mistaking her guests identity.

Are ye coming soon, lass? His lips didnt move, but she heard the question in her mind.

Vapor rose between them like mist off a lake and a salt tang filled the air. Behind it, she could see the pipers pupils expanding until the black all but overran the pale grey of the irises. There were reflections moving in those eyes, but they werent of the inns plain room.

He leaned forward, parting the hazy veil with his broad shoulders. Bits of vapor clung to his locks as he thrust his way through the mist that divided them.

He reached out an insubstantial finger to touch her cheek, and a shiver at the feathery touch of something half-recognized rippled through her skin. It was like velvet, only softer, and scorching to the touch; mist that was fire, fog that burned.

She could see more clearly now, the images moving in his eyes. There were trees and an altar with two figures embracing upon it; one small and golden, the other taller and dark.

Are ye coming tae me, lass? The voice asked again, demanding an affirmative answer.

Yes, another voice answered. She dimly recognized it as her own.

To my parents, with love.

The story of the piper of Duntrune is a true one and I have made an effort to convey the incident in a factual, if colorful, manner. As is common with incidents in the far past, especially less-noted ones, the documents chronicling this event are scarce. The accounts I have read insist that Dean Mapleton was a bishop in the Episcopal Church. This will seem odd to many people who have come to think of the Episcopalian religion as being an American one (an arm of the Anglican Church that has its roots in the American Revolution). But the reformed Episcopal Church was alive and kicking in Great Britain from 1844 onward, including in London where the heroine lived, and it appealed to people who did not entirely approve of rule by bishops. (It is an interesting side note that two-thirds of the signers of the Declaration of Independence were nominal members of the Anglican Church, and that they did not want to bring the episcopali.e. bishopsrule to the States and that this is what laid the groundwork for the formation of the American Episcopal Church.)

It is a gross simplification of the events surrounding the Year of Miracles, but for the purposes of understanding the cast of Night Visitor there were four main power players at work in the area around Duntrune: the Anglicans (English episcopals), Covenanters (Scottish puritans), Catholics (loyalists to King Charles I including the piper of Duntrune, Colkitto, and the Irish mercenaries known as Gallowglas), and the Campbells (who were looking after themselves). Where possible, I have used characters own words to describe thoughts and events, but when I could find no records I supplied them with opinions on a best-guess basis. This story is also peopled with entirely fictional characters, and I have invented terrain, geography, architectureand even decor as needed. For a purely factual account of the events that took place during Montroses campaign, I recommend the book Colkitto by Kevin Byrne.

As to the still-folk in Night Visitor, there were probably faeries hanging about the castle, but sadly I have found no documentary evidence to support this supposition. All references to things magical are created out of my imagination, though every good Celt knows that faeries are as real as brownies or kelpies and must be treated with the same respectwhich I made every effort to do.

Happy Reading,

Melanie Jackson

Duntrune Castle

Fall, 1888

Though he had no previous experience with exorcisms, Bishop Mapleton thought that dawn seemed a propitious hour to conduct one.

It wasnt that he wished to perform this act. He was a kind man, a good master, a doting grandfather. And he was fully aware that the Episcopal Church frowned upon any unsanctioned practice of such unconventional ceremoniesbut with the discovery of those handless bones under the dressing room floor of his castle and the renewal of the infernal playing, which is rumored to have been heard by the castles owners in centuries past from the battlements above the masters bedroom, he had to do something! The household staff was thoroughly sick of hearing those damned ghostly bagpipes playing Piobaireachd-dhun-Naomhaig to a bloody Colonsay Loyalist who had been dead for over two centuries. One hysterical housemaid had already resigned her position and now the cook was threatening to leave as well.

Mapleton had tried prayer, Christian burial of the bones, and even reasoned conversation with the entity that plagued his household. All to no avail. Every sunriseevery sunsetthe pipers warning to his master floated out from the castle walls, the indictment of its faulty metre there for everyone to hear.

Well, he had had enough! The reproach was completely misdirected. None of the dead pipers ills was of his doing, Mapleton assured himself, casting an uneasy glance at the ancient banner of the Campbells that hung in his hall. The ugly boars head, bathed in moonlight, seemed to glare at him with enraged little eyes.

Utter nonsense, he muttered, walking hurriedly away from the tusked swine.

And if this playing kept up he would be made a laughingstock. He was a bishop! He didnt have to tolerate some damned Papist ghost rousting him out of bed every bloody morning.

Still, this was a sensitive matter, likely to provoke gossip with the locals who were sympathetic to the ghost. So, without explaining why, he had ordered a watch to be kept and that the chapel bells were to toll a death knell upon the first showing of dawn in the eastern sky. Fearful of oversleeping Mapleton had chosen to remain awake the entire night through, with only a decanter of brandy and a Bible for companions.

Now he waited nervously in the cold and dark. As soon as the solemn peal began, he lit the candles on his impromptu altar and opened his prayer book. It was too dim to read, but that was no hindrance; he had the passages memorized.

Feeling somewhat awkward, and hoping that he would not be discovered by his staff or congregation in what felt somehow like a vulgar act, Mapleton began reciting quietly and hurriedly:

Most Glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, defend us against the spirits of wickedness in high places. The Lord has trusted the souls of the redeemed to be led into Heaven. We offer our prayers to the Most High, that without delay they may draw down His mercy upon us, and take hold of this pipe-playing serpent and cast him and his bagpipes into the bottomless pit.

Mapleton looked about uneasily, but could see no one nearby to witness his actions. He blew a warming breath over his naked fingers and went on:

His enemies are scattered. As smoke is driven away, so are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish in the presence of the Lord. We drive you from us, unclean, cacophonous spirits. Begone! I command thee!

His last syllable had not yet died away when the sun burst full over the horizon and the sound of mournful bagpipes could be heard droning to life up in the empty, gray battlements. Apparently, his application of the old ceremony to remove the ghost from the castle hadnt worked.

Mottled with rage and frustration, the bishop barely restrained himself from hurling his prayer book at the invisible spirit.

Bloody, damned Papist! Dont you know youve lost the war? King Charles is dead! The MacCollas deadand so are you! Mapletons voice trembled with outrage as he snatched up the brandy decanter, unsure for a moment whether to drink the contents or to throw them.