Wind Dancer
by
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The driver stopped at the entrance to the driveway and Katherine peered spellbound out of the small window of the carriage. She stared at the wooden sign hanging from the concrete post which read – Argyll House. Scots, of course, she muttered to herself – certainly not to the surly old fellow who stopped the carriage to open the massive iron gates. Having heard that the people of Maine were by nature taciturn and uncommunicative, this old codger more than fell into that category, she thought. The carriage continued on down a driveway that curved and dipped for about a quarter of a mile. As they rounded a sharp curve, a white clapboard, black-shuttered house appeared, huge against the gray leaden sky. The carriage came to a halt at the bottom of broad steps leading up to a wide veranda and Katherine gazed in awe at the house which arose some three stories above her. She was feeling a bit lightheaded – probably a combination of fatigue and lack of food. She stepped from the carriage, paid the driver and stood for a moment listening to the crashing sound coming from behind the house. While she had always lived by the sea, the mighty roar she heard was nothing like neither the gentle and calm Bay of St. Louis nor the Mississippi Sound, just a stone's throw from the door of her old home. Stifling the urge to run around the side of the house to catch a glimpse of the Atlantic, she lifted her long skirt and ran up the steps. After banging the heavy iron doorknocker several times, the door finally opened and a small man stood there, his beady black eyes growing visibly wider as he stared at her. Katherine, amused at the expression on his face, said,
I'm Katherine Campbell – Ian Campbell's niece." She assumed that the occupants of the house had been informed of her arrival but the look on this old fellow's face belied that assumption. The letter from her uncle's attorney informed her that a certain Thomas Duncan had been an employee and long-time resident of Argyll House and Captain Campbell had made a special bequest in his will to the effect that the said Thomas Duncan is allowed live in the house for his lifetime. The small, white-haired man continued to gaze at her wordlessly and she finally asked,
"Didn't my uncle's attorney notify you I was coming?"
"Forgive me, ma'am, yes indeed. I'm Thomas Duncan and to answer your question, I was expecting you but I didn't expect you to look... but no matter, please come in out of the cold. The winds are kicking up and the rain'll be here before you know it."
Katherine followed the tiny man into the hall, curious about his half-finished sentence, but too interested in her surroundings to pursue it further for the moment. Great arched windows across the back of the hall overlooked a broad veranda with stone steps leading down to a narrow expanse of garden. The small bit of land merged with great boulders that formed a boundary between the land and sea and enormous breakers crashed up against the rocks, sending spray over the veranda and up against the windows.
"There's a fire in the library, ma'am." Thomas said, startling her. She turned reluctantly away from the majestic view and followed him into a room where the crackle and snap of a blazing fire drew her toward a fireplace large enough to accommodate a small tree. She drew closer to its welcome warmth and sat down in one of the massive armchairs close to the stone hearth. She looked about in admiration at floor-to-ceiling bookcases that lined three walls of the room, all crammed with beautifully bound books. Then, hearing what sounded like a smothered chuckle, she glanced at Thomas noting he had his hand cupped over his mouth. Surprised at the sound from this seemingly dour little man, she raised her eyebrows.
"Forgive me, ma'am. You are such a mite of a thing; you're nearly lost in that big chair."
Katherine relaxed and smiled ruefully. "I know – all my life, I've been teased about my size. But you should talk; you're not much taller than I am!"
"True, ma'am. On you it's nice but not so on a man. But I must say Captain Campbell didn't seem to mind my small statue very much." It seemed that Thomas had found his tongue and Katherine relaxed.
"I wish I had known my uncle. Until I received the letter from his attorney, I was not aware that I had any relatives in this part of the country. What was he like?" Katherine tucked cold feet up beneath her skirt and looked inquiringly at the strange little man who fidgeted about on short bowed legs.
"Well, ma'am, he was a fine man, the Captain was. Stern, but fair and honest and he was the master of one of the sweetest vessels that ever sailed. I was his first mate for many a year and can say nothing but kind things about him. When he finally quit the sea and married Miss Abigail, God rest her soul, he asked me to come with him. In his will, he made provisions for me to stay on if I wanted to. I must say I'm as surprised as you since he never mentioned having any relatives – well other than Miss Gianetta, of course."
"I only knew of his existence a few months ago. My father died before I was born and my mother never talked much about my father's family."
Thomas looked into the wide gray eyes of the woman sitting in front of him thinking how like she was of another beautiful woman who had sat in that same chair not so long ago. Thomas was bound heart and soul to the Campbell family and it seemed that God had sent another in the form of this small person.
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About the Book
The iron gates still stand upright, but the ancient wooden sign hangs crookedly from one massive concrete post. The fearsome winters have taken their toll on the weathered wood but the word Argyll House is still legible if peered at closely on the sand pitted plank. The long winding drive is not well kept as in the old days since the present owners visit rarely, but the ancient house, looming abruptly around the last curve, is still impressive. The house is like an old dowager, proud and unbowed despite a worn and ravaged outward appearance, secretive and full of memories. Waves crash over the rocky coastline below the cracked, lichen-covered veranda where gulls swoop and cry just as they did in times long ago when two lovers stood on that same veranda and laughed with sheer joy of being together. Tiny, neurotic sandpipers scurry over the little sand spit at the bottom of the rocky steps leading from the veranda and the wind sighs through the tall sea grass that obscures a narrow path leading to the top of a distant hill. Some of the locals say it's haunted on that hill. They say a woman stands near the edge of the cliff, her long hair blowing in the wind – watching – waiting. Those who venture closer to the old house on a night when a sliver of a moon shines dimly through the mist have their own story to add to the legend of Argyll House. The night is still with only the sound of tiny waves splashing up against the rocks. Suddenly there is a different sound. Peering through the swirling fog there appears the outline of a six-masted schooner rounding the headland, its sails gleaming ghostly white in the waning moonlight. There is silence for a long moment, and then the faint splash of oars is heard. Suddenly the veranda door flies open and the figure of a woman appears, long unbound hair streaming down her back. She pauses briefly, then lifts her long skirt and skims across the veranda, small feet barely touching the pavement. The watcher, mesmerized by the sight of the beautiful radiant face streaked with tears, feels a stabbing pang of envy as the woman rushes headlong down the stone steps and wades out into the cold water, oblivious to the sting, moving toward the tall man who steps from the dinghy, his arms outstretched. Then a breeze stirs and its soft sigh mingles with the deep voice of the man as he lifts the woman and murmurs one word – Katrine.
About the Author
The author now lives in New Orleans after traveling to and from the gulf coast of Mississippi to Maine where she developed an abiding love for the beautiful coastlines of both areas. She spent her youth in the south, studying journalism, history and music in college and decided to write the Wind Dancer utilizing her knowledge of some of these beloved subjects. She was prompted to put to paper many of the experiences in her own life and hopes this book sets forth her belief and first-hand knowledge that constant love and fidelity on the part of two people in love are the most important and soul-satisfying aspects of a person's life.