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Chapter 1
Edinburgh,Scotland
Saturday -- December 16: We pull out of Waverley Train Station in a black cab to see Edinburgh Castle
dominating the city skyline. Down the street, the gothic
Sir Walter Scott monument is silhouetted against low gray clouds. With its fairy-like spires rising over 100 feet in the air, this must be the most impressive monument to
any writer, anywhere in the world. Surrounding buildings are topped with crow-stepped gables and pepper-pot turrets. Crowds of Christmas shoppers move in waves down
Princes Street. A musician plays the bagpipes in a darkened doorway.
Tara squeezes my hand, our eyes meet. We’re both
thrilled at the idea of being here for the next five weeks.
The driver asks where we’re from in the states. “Los Angeles,” I say.
“Are ya crazy comin’ to Scotland in one of the coldest
winters in history?” He laughs. Light snowflakes collide with the windshield as we make our way through rush-hour traffic to our rented apartment.
This is our first trip to Scotland. We’re traveling with
our youngest children, Hunter, nine, and Cheyenne, seven. Cheyenne is a brunette with a bubbly personality -- a pint-sized version of her mother. Hunter is blond
like me, his personality serious and logical. They both share our excitement.
I sense I’ve come home. Tara feels the same.
The two-bedroom apartment is a couple miles west of city
center. Mr. and Mrs. Perrot, the flat owners, have been waiting for our arrival and explain how things work. They’re warm and friendly, offer tea and cookies, and are
concerned about the children having a nice Christmas so far from home.
“Finding a Christmas tree is one of our first priorities,” I say.
The windows of the third-floor apartment look out upon
Pilrig Park, which is dusted with snow. Two collie dogs run in circles around a couple strolling on the sidewalk. It’s dark by the time we unpack and walk to a
neighborhood grocery store to stock up on staples. Fresh tarts in a bakery window draw us in. A white-haired man behind the counter recognizes us as Americans, welcomes
us, and proceeds to tell of his daughter living in the US.
Back in the apartment, the TV offers five stations, and
Tara decides upon sheepdog trials on one of the government-sponsored channels.
“Sheepdog trials?”
Tara and Cheyenne are delighted. Hunter quickly retreats
to his bedroom. I watch the dogs take turns herding sheep into a pen. Obviously, I’m not a connoisseur of sheepdog talent, because each appears to me to exactly duplicate
the actions of the previous dog. Forty-five minutes later I’ve watched a dozen dogs and my eyes are glazing over, while my wife and daughter are excited to the point of
shouting encouragement to animals they like.
We quickly adapt to the city. Everything is familiar, comfortable
-- including the people. Tara and I share a Scottish heritage, but this doesn’t explain why we feel so at home here. We have wanted to come to Scotland since we
first met. Riding horseback across this country was our honeymoon dream, but beyond our means at the time.
The only available freshly cut Christmas trees are about three feet high
-- seven feet too short by home
standards. After a fruitless tree-shopping expedition,
the children happily agree to an artificial tree. Two days after our arrival, the tiny apartment living room looks like Christmas. Whenever we aren’t exploring the city,
watching sheepdogs or sleeping, Cheyenne makes hand-drawn paper ornaments. “Because there aren’t enough ornaments,” she says.
“I like yours best,” I say.
We quickly fall into a Scottish routine. Tara and I take
turns fixing breakfast, then we set off to explore the city, eating most of our lunches and dinners in local restaurants.
Over the next week we absorb Edinburgh. Despite the
cold, we crisscross the city on foot, exploring out-of-the-way cobblestone courtyards and inviting closes as well as the major tourist attractions: the Castle, Palace of
Holyrood House, the Royal Mile and the National Gallery. We attend a play, discover favorite restaurants, and take a late-night “ghostwalk” on the coldest night of the
century. Edinburgh has a rich history of horror stories, and entrepreneurs dress in ghastly attire and guide walks to the sites of hauntings.
The restored 17th century tenements in the heart of Old
Town are as inviting as the Georgian townhouses in New Town. We talk of where to rent when we return for a longer stay. By the end of the week, my wife claims she could
live here.
“I’d be in terrible trouble. Too many of the Scottish
women look just like you,” I say.
“Was that a left-handed compliment or a warning?” Tara asks.
My wife is a slim, green-eyed brunette, 5’4" and
beautiful. We were recently in Paris where I expected to see an abundance of beauties. Wrong. They’re all in Scotland.
Before leaving the city for a two-day trip north, we
need to wash clothes. The miniature washer/dryer sits beneath a counter in the apartment’s kitchen. Tara intends to set some of the clothes over a drying rack in front of
the radiator. The machine begins to chug through its washing cycle which seems to take forever. One hour, two hours. We go out, explore half of Edinburgh, and return to
find it still chugging. Tara is becoming upset at the machine.
I sit on the couch, sip single-malt Scotch, and read the
newspaper. On TV, sheepdogs herd sheep. I learn it’s easier to watch such events after a shot of Scotch.
Tara yells for me to come into the kitchen. The machine
has finally stopped sloshing and spinning. “It won’t open,” she says.
When I try to open the door, the result is deep,
in-ternal clicking noises. “Maybe it’ll open later.”
“I’ll freeze in Inverness without my long silk underwear.”
We both stand looking at the machine. There is a pause,
a click, and the drum begins to spin. “It’s drying them for you,” I say.
“I don’t want it to dry them. It will wear them out,”
she says, exasperated.
I punch buttons, turn knobs. No response. The machine
whirls on. When we go to bed, it’s still spinning.
In the morning, the door opens and my wife retrieves her
long underwear, which she carefully examines.
“Did it survive it’s long journey?” I ask.
“We need to find a laundromat,” she says.
Thursday -- December 21: We leave our Edinburgh apartment for two days to race north 160 miles on a ScotRail train to Inverness -- entrance to the Highlands. The children read and play with toys while Tara and I stare out the window at the snow-covered rolling hills. Fields are divided by low stone walls, and sheep dot the frozen landscape. I sense an adrenaline rush, probably fueled by my anxiety over being here, doing this -- racing over a hundred miles an hour into my past.
When the train pulls into Aviemore, Tara feels a deep
sadness. Later she asks her spirit guide Abenda about this via automatic writing. Abenda writes: “1861 -- You lived near Aviemore. You were a man who
loved a Scottish lass. She was from a well-to-do family. You were betrothed to another, but you held on to what fun you could have. She bore a son in shame. She later
married but left her son with her family and estates. You saw the boy from time to time and sent money through your secretaries.”
Upon our arrival in Inverness we will spend the
afternoon exploring the city, then take a cab a few miles out of town to Culloden House, to spend the night. The next morning we’ll visit Culloden Moor, site of the last
battle fought on British soil. I have never before visited a battlefield, but this one draws me. Upon hearing the name,
my blood rushes. Seeing a picture of Bonnie Prince
Charlie, I catch my breath.
In 1745, Charles Edward Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charlie)
sailed to Scotland, raised an army of clansmen, and marched on England to reclaim the throne for his exiled father James VIII. He fought his way almost to London before
turning back. The retreating clansmen were pursued by the Duke of Cumberland’s English army. At Culloden Moor, Cumberland overtook the outnumbered Scots, who were
exhausted, nearly starved, and badly led. The battle lasted less than an hour. Cumberland’s dragoons killed the wounded and slaughtered not only the fleeing clansmen, but
hundreds of innocent townspeople, including women and children. The deeds earned him a new name: “The Butcher.” Prince Charlie went into hiding for months before escaping
to France.
Culloden House was once a private castle, heavily
fortified to defend a siege. Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed here prior to the battle. Today the house is an exclusive hotel.
We arrive after dark, temperature in the low twenties,
no snow on the ground. We’re welcomed by a sable collie. “What’s his name?” the kids ask.
“Prince,” says a middle-aged man wearing a tartan kilt.
He is Ian McKenzie, owner of the hotel. I introduce myself, Tara and the children.
We’re shown to our third-floor room furnished with a
covered four-poster bed. The children have twin beds across the room. There are two bathrooms. A bowl of fresh fruit sits on a table by a small TV set. The windows look
down upon the circular drive to the front door. On a bedside table is a 14-page booklet: Prince Charlie and Culloden House, by Ian McKenzie.
Many months ago, when asking Abenda to tell us about our
past lives in the British Isles, one in particular stood out: “You were born in Edinburgh to a merchant father and homemaker mother. They had a fairly good life in
1732. But taxes were appalling and the English kings were unconcerned about what the Scots did without. So the hatred continued. This lifetime you fled to Ireland and
found sanctuary among their people and customs.
The date in the writing is significant, because I would
have been the right age to have joined Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Jacobite Rebellion of 1745. Those that survived fled, for their lands were confiscated, and if captured,
they were imprisoned.
Downstairs in the Culloden House dining room, Tara and I
sit by a blazing fireplace, talking with Ian. I tell him I read his booklet and compliment his writing. He is an ex-journalist who gave up reporting to purchase this
house. We establish a writer-to-writer bond and are soon deep in conversation. Ian answers my questions about the battle. Upon learning of my clan bloodlines, he shows me
an old book listing names of captured prisoners -- pages of my ancestors.
When I tell him we are going to visit the battlefield in
the morning, he suggests exploring the energy on the moor with two L-shaped, bent coat hanger wires. I don’t tell him I sometimes use them to demonstrate subtle energy in
my seminars.
Ian leaves and returns with wires. Holding them loosely
in his closed fist, he shows the children how the wires part when crossing a water pipe beneath the floor. Hunter and Cheyenne do it successfully.
Dinner is a gourmet experience. Afterwards, we take
coffee in the drawing room and I study some of Ian’s books. By 9 PM we are back in the room to watch a traditional music TV show. I sit in front of the set, holding the
bent coat hangers in my hand. About ten minutes into the program, the hangers move. I almost drop them, but instead, slowly move them up into position where they
momentarily quiver, then swing apart. Bringing them back together, I ask, “Is anyone here?” The hangers swing wide.
Our yes and no questions follow. The wires swing in
response. There is an earthbound spirit in the room trying to make contact. Yes, he is male. Yes, people stopped talking to him long ago. Yes, he is glad to have made
contact with someone who acknowledges his presence. No, he isn’t interested in going to any “light.”
Tara takes the hangers and they begin to twitch as if
invisible fingers were flicking the ends up and down. We ask more questions, but yes and no responses offer a limited opportunity to attain understanding.
The children are intrigued that a ghost is in the room,
but they are used to such occurrences and would rather go downstairs and see Prince. I agree to go along. Tara remains in the room to take a shower.
When we return, she is wrapped in a towel and very
excited. “Quick,” she says, leading me into the bathroom. “While in the shower I said, ‘If there is really someone here, give me a sign.’ A moment later, letters began to
appear in the steamed mirror surrounding the shower. The name ‘Grant.’ Then right over there, the spirit drew a thistle (the symbol of Scotland).”
Tara points. The remains of a thistle can still be seen.
Back in the drawing room, I check the name Grant in the
book of prisoners and find fifteen. An Alexander Grant of Inverness died shortly after his capture. Three more died in prison. Ian’s brochure explained that after the
battle, seventeen wounded Scotch officers took refuge in the cellar of Culloden House where the servants cared for them. When the Duke of Cumberland learned of their
presence, he had them taken out and shot.
Was one of them a Grant? The spirit in our room may have
been wounded, filled with anger, and suffered terribly before being executed. That state of mind could have kept him earthbound.
Friday, December 22 -- Culloden Moor: It snowed during the night, but by the time we arrive at the battlefield, the snow has melted and it’s sleeting. The same weather conditions as on the day of the battle, April 16, 1746. The National Trust for Scotland has built a commemorative center at the entrance. We quickly view the displays, and watch a short film that leaves us misty-eyed.
Outside on the edge of the battlefield, buffeted by
wind-driven sleet, Tara and I hold each other, crying. The children ask, “What’s wrong?”
As out of character as my reaction is, I assume the
emotion relates to my identification with the battle or
participation in the conflict.
“Why are you crying?” I ask Tara.
“I don’t know,” she sobs.
For the next hour, we explore the well-marked positions
of the Scotch and English troops. The terrain is painfully familiar. Once I relate the placement of English cannons and Cumberland’s troops to the position of the Scots, I
decide to walk out into the heather. Finding a position that must have been near the center of the battle, I close my eyes, alter my consciousness, and attempt to perceive
the psychometric emanations of Culloden Moor. Conditioned to attain an alpha-level trance within a few moments, at first I intuit only blackness and the sound of sleet
striking the hood of my coat. Then, as if the volume were being slowly turned up, I begin to hear blood-curdling battle cries, the clashing of swords and the roar of
cannons. Images flash before my inner eyes: fighting men, screaming men, dying men. And within a strobe-like flash, it’s as if I’m looking through another’s eyes,
experiencing an adrenaline rush and a searing hatred for the red-coated soldiers. It’s an emotion powerful enough to override all fear and common sense. Killing the enemy
is the only act that will keep me from exploding. The intensity of the experience jolts me back into a waking state. Shivering and shaken, I drop to my knees in the
heather.
When I catch up to Tara and the children, they’re
studying the grave markers along the walkway. Nearby
is a monument explaining that these are “the graves of
the gallant Highlanders who fought for Scotland & Prince Charlie.”
By the time we leave the moor, there is no doubt in my
mind. Nearly 250 years ago, I was here fighting to
return a Scottish Stuart King to the English throne.
The sleet has drenched the children although they’re
wearing waterproof snowcoats. We forgot to bring snowboots, so Tara talks the chef in the visitor-center restaurant into drying their hiking boots in the oven. Luckily,
there are few other customers. She uses a whole table to spread out our attire, hoping it will dry while we have soup and hot drinks. Before leaving, my wife wraps the
children’s socks in plastic food wrap. Cheyenne loudly protests. Hunter claims he will never speak to his mother again if she makes him go out in public like this.
Arriving safe and dry back at our Edinburgh apartment,
we find that the owners have left us fresh linens, plus a plate of Highland cream fudge and two wrapped Christmas presents for the children.
That evening, Tara asks Abenda why she was so shaken by
our battlefield experience. Abenda writes: “At Culloden Moor, Richard stood against the Crown again -- grudges from the past. At this time, you, Tara,
were a man named Orin who had studied medicine one year in Edinburgh before returning to Inverness. Orin was not part of the battle, but in helping the wounded, he became
a marked man. Richard met Orin while fleeing to Ireland. Once there, Orin took up doctoring skills and Richard stayed to work as a male nurse and assistant. They became
dear friends, and visited brothels together. There was no marriage for either in that lifetime. They both died of a fever caught from a patient.”
Bringing my genetic past into the present begins with
childhood conversations with my maternal great-grandmother. During the potato famine, her father Isaac Graham emigrated from Ireland. At fifteen, he was one of seven boys
and two girls who crossed the ocean in an open boat. During a storm, one of the boys washed overboard. In America, Isaac later met and married Anna Boyd, also an Irish
immigrant.
But it was our Scottish blood my Grandma talked about.
Questioning this, I was told, “We are Scotch/Irish.” Her grandparents were John Boyd of Ireland and Jane Campbell of Scotland. Both the Boyd and Graham surnames go quickly
back to Scotland -- the Boyds fleeing English oppression and the Grahams participating in the plantation program of James I. In an attempt to stabilize Ireland,
Irish land was given to settlers from Scotland and England.
Written records, history books, Bibles, funeral books,
obituaries, death certificates, and diaries document my family history. Today in Scotland and Ireland, computer data banks are available to help search out one’s genetic
lineage. In my research I expected to find links to Irish bloodlines but was unable to do so. My ancestors born in Ireland were from Ulster and staunch Presbyterians --
a sign they did not intermarry with Irish Catholics.
In The Scotch-Irish -- A Social History, author James G. Leyburn says, “On both sides, therefore, the religious difference between Scots and Irish was an insurmountable barrier. No one could be more zealous than a Scots divine in disapproval of any traffic with the Catholics. Northern Ireland is still, after three centuries, not Irish in the sense of religious, economic, and political assimilation. In some remote villages of Ulster even yet the dialect is Scots.”
The more I investigate my Scottish family history, the
more it looks like my past lives intersect with my family lineage. Virtually all Grahams are descendants of Sir John de Graham, who was second in command to William
Wallace (Braveheart). His bravery legendary, Sir John died in the Battle of Falkirk in 1298. Robert the Bruce, King of Scots, is a likely ancestor through his descendant’s
marriages to both Grahams and Campbells.
Boyd lineage is traced back to Duncan Boyd who also
fought for Scottish independence with Wallace. As one of the leaders of the rebellion, he was hunted down and executed a few months after Wallace died. The Fourth Boyd
Earl was a general in Bonnie Prince Charlie’s army. He fought at Culloden Moor, was captured and executed in the Tower of London.
In more automatic writing, Abenda said, “Richard has
had many incarnations in the Britains. He has fought many battles in the name of ‘freedom.’ England he likes now, but it’s been hard on him many times. England if he
remembers never called to him. That’s because he fought against the empire many times. But today it is full of the same people and Scotland is a land he loves. You will
have years of happiness spent there.”
Abenda proceeds to describe a life in AD 825 --
of forming an army within a village for protection. Then, “In two lifetimes he went to battle and diedone with the Celts, the other with the northerners when he headed
south with a sword.”
I assume the “northerners” were the Picts -- the
orginal settlers of what is now Scotland.
In another incarnation I was a woman -- the wife
of a soldier (obviously needing to view the situation from the perspective of the one left behind).
Abenda claims Tara and I came together in AD 939 for the
first time since we shared an incarnation in Mayan Teotihuacan in AD 581. “Medieval Scotland. You took a rest from each other after your deaths in Teotihuacan. But in
this life you lived in a rural community outside of Edinburgh. Married as teenagers, you were very much in love and moved to the city. You had only the basic necessities
of life, but you were happy. Tara became pregnant within months and died in childbirth. The baby lived with Richard. In time he married another woman to care for his son.”
Abenda adds an interesting note here -- a
reincarnation concept I have never encountered: “Tara, you had to leave them because you were also committed to an incarnation as a priest who helped children. Richard
was terribly hurt by your departure. After Teotihuacan, on an intuitive level, you feared what kind of trouble he might get you into. He has a long history of fighting for
what he believes in.”
In a later shared incarnation, I seem to have avoided
conflict (maybe I need Tara’s influence to mellow me out). “You were nobles as you had karmically earned the right to guide men.You had tact and diplomacy. You learned
that the Irish and Scottish often made matters worse for themselves by playing the game until death. You came to understand the need of government and the need of
rebellion. But by this time, you also learned when matters had gone too far.”
Culloden Moor must have related to the need of
rebellion. Hopefully, any remaining violence was balanced in a turn-of-the-century California life as a man named Ed Morrell. After years of imprisonment and terrible
suffering, Morrell wrote, “The very essence of the law of love is to return good for evil. I have stood adamant against the temptation of returning like for like.”
Today, one of my most treasured possessions is a replica
of a 16th-century Scottish claymore -- the two-handed Highlander sword -- a gift from Tara that hangs on our living room wall. Holding the weapon, I
experience a flood of emotions: security, pride, honor, anger, power -- my heritage and incarnations intersecting in a symbol of the past --
a symbol I have replaced with a pen.
Monday, December 25: Christmas morning, Hunter and Cheyenne bounce upon our bed in the
predawn hours, wanting us to get up and open presents. Were we home in California, our clan would be gathered at our Lake Arrowhead house in the San Bernardino Mountains
-- 16 to 20 people -- sometimes more. A ten-foot tree would dominate the living room, and every nook and cranny would be decorated. By sunrise, the house would
smell of roasting turkey, and Tara would have baked enough pies and cookies to feed an army. We’d awaken to see light snow dusting the pine trees, and I’d build a big fire
in the fireplace.
This morning, it’s just the four of us in a chilly
apartment with no fireplace, but we’re quickly into the spirit and delighted to be celebrating Christmas in Scotland. We’ve carried a suitcase full of the children’s
presents from home, and they’re told that they each have two presents, which were too big to carry, waiting for them in Malibu. They’re delighted with their gifts.
There are no real gift surprises between Tara and me,
because we’ve picked up presents along the way -- English and Scottish items we couldn’t find at home. Among Tara’s gifts are a silver and amethyst Celtic necklace
and earrings and a cashmere cape. I love my silver statuette of Robert the Bruce on horseback, which will sit on my desk at home. The children purchased Mom’s presents in
the National Gallery gift shop in London.
A grand dinner awaits us at the George Hotel -- a
five-crown-rated establishment on George Street in city center. Dressed in our finery, I try to call a cab for the two-mile journey, but the phone lines remain perpetually
busy. We set out on foot, hoping to hail a cab or catch a bus. The ground is now snow covered and the pavement slippery with ice, but we quickly find a cab and arrive at
the hotel a few minutes prior to our reservation.
A woman walking through the lobby recognizes the tartan
pattern of my necktie and says to her husband, loud enough for me to hear, “He’s a Campbell.” I don’t know if the remark is meant to be positive or negative, but it’s an
example of how clan identities remain an emotional part of Scottish society.
The restaurant is freezing, but no one else seems to
notice. I’m wearing a heavy Harris Tweed sportcoat, Tara has on an elegant outfit made up of a turtleneck sweater, vest, and velvet pants, but we’re both shivering. The
children don’t seem to notice. Dinner is served buffet style, with lamb and ham as the main dishes. We enjoy the meal, but after converting pounds into dollars, don’t feel
it was worth $300 plus tip.
With everything in Edinburgh closed, we spend the
evening at the apartment watching American movies on TV and eating ice cream made with real cream. We accept to being forever spoiled when it comes to Scottish ice cream.
Calling out from the apartment phone has proven difficult, so we’ve asked everyone to call us. Tara’s mother calls from Alaska, our older son William from Malibu.
Saturday, December 30: Edinburgh’s celebration of Hogmaney is the biggest New Year’s party
in Europe. Hundreds of thousands of people gather here to participate in the festivities. As we huddle together on Princes Street, the wail of bagpipes cuts through the
freezing night. We watch as the pipers lead thousands of torch-carrying revelers off the Mound and down the hill. Behind the pipers are drummers, and behind them, men
pulling a wooden Viking ship. We step off the curb and join the procession, which eventually winds through narrow streets, up to Calton Hill overlooking the city.
Performers swing balls of fire, and dance and spar with wooden swords. Men on stilts wearing strange bird costumes bob drunkenly through the crowd. Drums beat with frantic
intensity. Torches blaze. People crowd around oil-barrel fires to warm up.
“Pagan!” Tara shouts gleefully.
“Welcome home!” I shout back.
At the highest point on the hill, the Viking ship has
been set on fire. Searing embers leap into the night sky. The snow-covered ground glows orange. Above the crowd, on the Parthenon-like war memorial, dancers beat goatskin
drums and spin fiery torches. Others in huge king costumes, illuminated from within, sway back and forth to the hypnotic beat.
I cannot deny a stirring deep within me. Genetic memory?
Frenzied flashes of my Celtic heritage?I wonder.
I hold Cheyenne in my arms, as directly overhead
fireworks begin to explode -- a pyrotechnics display exceeding any Fourth of July spectacular I’ve ever witnessed. Tara wraps her arms around my waist. Hunter
snuggles between, holding us.
“Happy New Year!”
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