Page 4 of A Fire in Their Hearts
W ORD SPREADS LIKE FIRE ON a moor that is tinderbox dry and the Reverend Colvil’s service in the barn this Sunday is attended by almost the entire congregation from his previous kirk.
He’s beaming with pride and I can’t deny the feelings of hope and commitment that fill the building, which we spent all of yesterday cleaning out.
It’s an impressive victory for him, yet a tiny part of me is fearful. Fires can so easily get out of control.
‘God is everywhere and He is no less in our hearts while we stand in this barn than He is when we’re in the kirk. We have no disloyalty to King Charles as the monarch of Scotland, but the Scriptures are clear that the head of our Church is Jesus Christ, and no man, even the king, can replace him.’
The congregation hums in agreement. Samuel’s father is a good preacher; for more than an hour he holds everyone’s attention so tightly that we are like one large family.
I too am swept up in the swell of hope and kinship that washes through the barn, proud that he is the father of the man I’ll marry.
There is only one person amongst us who has loudly displayed his displeasure at being here.
‘Today is a special occasion,’ announces the reverend, ‘for our congregation has a new addition.’
A young couple moves to the front, the woman holding a restless baby who has been crying throughout most of the sermon.
Folk nod and smile and mutter quiet prayers for the baby’s good health.
The Reverend Colvil speaks softly to the parents while we watch on in silence.
He’s good at dealing with people of different ages and backgrounds, dispensing tenderness or severity depending upon what’s required.
Lifting up a small pewter flask of water, he speaks once more so that all can hear.
‘For you, little child, Jesus Christ has come, he has fought, he has suffered. For you he entered the shadow of Gethsemane and the horror of Calvary. For you he uttered the cry, “It is finished!” For you he rose from the dead and ascended into heaven and there he intercedes – for you, little child, even though you do not know it. But in this way the word of the Gospel becomes true. We love him, because he first loved us.’
Then he lets a trickle of water fall onto the head of the baby in its mother’s arms. ‘I now baptise you Fraser Young, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’
*?*?*
It’s strange to be outside by a barn rather than our familiar kirk, but there are still certain things expected of a minister’s son and while Samuel speaks to members of the congregation, I walk to the area where horses belonging to the wealthier folk are tied up.
‘I knew you would be here,’ I say.
Hamish smiles back at me. ‘Where else is there to be? I suppose Sam is stuck having to speak to people?’
‘He sees it as good training.’
‘I would rather speak to the horses.’
I stroke the neck of the nearest animal. ‘Do they speak back?’
‘Of course, you just have to know how to listen. Don’t go near the bay, he’s angry.’
‘He told you?’
‘If you go near him, he’ll tell you as well!’
I watch my twin, so much more at ease with animals than people.
He would never make a minister. Eventually, Samuel joins us and the two of us slip away, walking up a hill that doesn’t particularly lead anywhere as we want to have some time alone and out of sight of others. He takes my hand and I smile.
‘If everyone was as happy as I am now, then there would be no fighting anywhere,’ I say. ‘Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the king.’
‘He needs to hold someone’s hand?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t have anyone.’
‘There’s probably an official, dressed in gold, called the king’s hand-holder, and every time the king feels lonely this person rushes over and takes his hand!’ Samuel stops walking. ‘There might be others.’
‘Like who?’ I say, laughing and wondering what foolish ideas he’s going to suggest.
‘There could be an official .?.?. mover of the king’s hair,’ he says, gently moving a strand of hair from my face. ‘Or an official kisser of the king’s eyebrows.’
‘You said they looked like caterpillars!’
‘Very nice caterpillars,’ he says, kissing them tenderly.
‘Maybe, there should just be an official kisser.’
‘What would they do?’ he asks, trying to sound innocent.
‘This,’ I reply.
It’s a long while later before we continue our walk.
‘I hope that one day I can give sermons as well as my father,’ he says, when we’ve covered some distance in silence.
‘I’m worried,’ I reply. The fear that has been growing inside me nudges aside my happiness of earlier.
‘The names of those who do not attend Sunday services in the kirk will gradually be gathered by the new curate and handed to the local garrison. Then everyone, including us, will be visited by soldiers demanding the payment of a fine or implementing some other punishment.’
‘Well, what’s my father supposed to do? He’s a minister, and despite the king declaring that the Church of Scotland is now Episcopalian, my father’s congregation wishes to listen to him rather than some poorly trained curate nobody knows. Is he meant to abandon his flock?’
He’s too proud of his father. We’re both too proud of our fathers to talk about them without emotion.
‘No, of course not. Ministers throughout Scotland will hold similar events in barns and houses. They have no choice, and Parliament will have no choice but to react with violence, and at some point ordinary people will rise up with violence and there will be slaughter amongst innocent Scotsmen and women and we’ll be caught up in it, Samuel, because we will have no choice, then you and Calum and others I love—’
Samuel takes me in his arms, for I’m crying uncontrollably as I relate with growing upset the words that I’ve heard my father say and which have gone around inside my head for days and nights, giving me hardly a moment’s peace of mind.
‘Shhh. It’s all right, Violet. I’ve got you. You’re safe.’
‘We can’t live on this hill to avoid people, and so we won’t be safe! Those I love will die. I know it, Samuel. I feel this more strongly than ever.’
‘We can’t alter what is God’s will.’
‘But what is His will, Samuel? What is His will?’