“What in the world?” She moved in as close as she could get and stared at the strange, ancient pagan fertility symbol whose round face was always shown surrounded by leaves. Green men could be found all over Rosslyn Chapel, carved on the walls, the ceiling, the pillars, and hidden among the seven deadly sins.
One school of thought claimed that the little green man symbolized man’s capacity for great goodness versus his corresponding facility for evil-whatever that meant. Some said the story of Robin Hood had its origins in the green man legend. The eerie thing was, green men had been found carved in the old stone walls of churches and abbeys all over Britain, depicted as demon, trickster, or lord of the forest. His true meaning remained a primordial mystery.
Surrounded by all the symbols of freemasonry in the pillars and the walls, I felt my thoughts begin to run wild. It occurred to me as I stood staring at a carving of an angel playing bagpipes that there might be some deeper significance to the Robert Burns poems than an illicit love affair and a secret baby.
What if the story of Rabbie and the princess was true? What if the royal family had known about the baby being Robert Burns’s child all along? What if they had not only refused to allow the upstart, rabble-rousing Freemason Scotsman to be an acknowledged link in the royal lineage, but also decided to do something about it? Burns had been ill ever since he’d left Edinburgh and died prematurely at the age of thirty-seven.
What if his death had been less than natural? What if he’d been murdered?
“What if you’re hallucinating?” I muttered as I shook my head to clear away the murderous thoughts. “Jeezo, Wainwright, chill out.”
I loved a conspiracy theory as much as the next girl, but that was ridiculous. In my defense, it probably wasn’t the first time someone had suffered acute delirium inside Rosslyn Chapel.
“What’d you say, honey?” Mom asked.
“Nothing.” I smiled gaily, causing her to frown.
“What’s this?” I asked quickly, pointing to the arch above us. It seemed to distract her as she checked her brochure.
“The danse macabre,” she explained. “See the little skeletons walking next to their earthly bodies? They’re supposed to represent death’s supremacy over mankind.”
“Cheery,” I said.
“I know.” She mused, “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out these old Freemason dudes were once Deadheads.”
It was useless to point out that the chapel had been built over six hundred years ago, while the Grateful Dead and their Deadhead followers had come into being only forty or so years ago, not the other way around. Mom had a whole different way of dealing with that pesky space-time continuum thing.
And who was to say she wasn’t right? I thought, staring at the perky little carved skeletons. In my current state, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them pop out of the wall and start grooving to “Iko Iko.”
And now that I thought about it, that carving of the last prince of Orkney, William St. Clair, over in the corner near the entrance to the baptistry, bore a striking resemblance to Jerry Garcia.
Oh, good. More hallucinating.
We caught up with Dad downstairs in the sacristy, an austere space with none of the ornate carvings found in the main church. Here, six feet below ground level, was where a number of tombs of the Rosslyn barons and Orkney princes were located. If there were any ghosts in Rosslyn Chapel, I figured they slept here at night.
“Who’s ready for lunch?” Dad said, not a moment too soon.
We all blinked like baby possums as we stepped outside into the glaring sunshine. After wandering around the lovely grounds for another twenty minutes, we decided to buy sandwiches and tea and water for Dad in the café and eat in the car.
On the drive back, I sat with Robin in the front seat while Mom and Dad started a songfest in back. Dad wanted to start with sixties hits, but Mom insisted on Scottish tunes. She began to sing “ Loch Lomond ” and we all joined in.
On the chorus, my father’s tenor voice filled the car and made my eyes sting with pride.
“Oh! Ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road,
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye,
But me and my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”
Mom kissed him on the cheek and I saw that her eyes were damp, too.
“Second verse is yours, Helen,” Dad said jovially.
“But I don’t know the words.”
So they just sang the chorus a few more times, and Helen laughed a lot, making me smile. I figured Mom and Dad had started the singing to coax her out of her shell, and it was working. She seemed to be her old self again, relaxed and upbeat. Maybe she and Martin would work things out, after all. I hoped not, but that was just me. I would give him the benefit of the doubt if it made her happy.