EKPHRASIS : Art Describing Art : 2015
California Writers Club, Mendocino Branch : A Collaboration : Artists Co-Op of Mendocino
Writers Providing Works for Visual Artists Responses
Lea Callan “The Piper”
Provided work for the responding visual artist,
Bob Rhoades “Tartan Tale”

"The Piper" by Lea Callan
My father liked to tell us stories about Scotland. Sometimes they were about the island he grew up on, North Uist. Sometimes they were stories he heard from his parents, stories passed down through generations. Those were the ones I liked best.
When I was ten years old, he told a story that would cling to me in dreams for years to come "The lone piper," he said, "holds a special place in the hearts of Scots." He told of us how after a battle, won or lost, the brave lone piper would play a lament to ease the journey of the souls of the fallen warriors. "Such a man," he said, "was Jamie Stewart who played far atop Edinburgh Castle ramparts at the annual gathering of the Tattoo. He played most wonderfully well. Twas a sad ending for a brawny lad." I frowned in dread of the ending. "Perhaps," he continued, "it was because the wind was unusually calm that night that the sudden gust caught him unawares." He paused and I held my breath. "And hurled him, not onto the courtyard but over the back and a two-hundred foot cliff." I burst into tears.
That night marked the first of many nights to come when I would see the piper blown from the wall and wake up with a cry. Over the years the dreams came less frequently but never completely left me. When my dad told me that for my high school graduation he was taking me to Scotland and we would be there at the time of the Tattoo, I was thrilled but secretly felt a little shiver of fear.
It was raining when we arrived in Scotland and was still raining when two days later we were in a taxi on our way to the Tattoo at Edinburgh Castle At the bottom of the hill leading up to the castle, we joined the multitude of bobbing black umbrellas making their way up the road. I was filled with anxious anticipation knowing that I would be seeing the actual wall where Jamie Stewart had walked a hundred years ago. Not long after we were seated in the courtyard stands, we were asked to furl our umbrellas so that no one's view would be blocked. Fortunately the rain had lessened to a misty drizzle. Suddenly, all lights were extinguished, followed by a shaft of light on the castle wall. My heart lurched and I felt light-headed. I was unprepared for this violent reaction. The haunting notes of the pipes filled my ears and I didn't know if I was hearing it or imagining it. The figure of the piper emerged into the light. He was wearing the red and green tartan of the Stewarts. I was gripped by a terrible dread. Below the ramparts, two figures in long white filmy dresses danced on a balcony in the gauzy mist. It gave the whole scene an other-worldly look.
"It's all right, Ellie," my dad said. He took my hand. "Remember, he's wearing a harness." I looked at him and his words sounded far away. I clung to his hand and closed my eyes, striving to gain control of my emotions. "It's all right," he repeated. I opened my eyes and forced myself to watch, with bated breath, the piper's stately march along the ramparts, heard the haunting notes of the lament. He reached the end of the wall and the shaft of light went out. I sat for a moment in stunned silence, then a giddy flood of relief washed through me as the whole arena became bathed in light and twenty magnificent black horses, their riders clad in scarlet, pranced onto the field.
My father liked to tell us stories about Scotland. Sometimes they were about the island he grew up on, North Uist. Sometimes they were stories he heard from his parents, stories passed down through generations. Those were the ones I liked best.
When I was ten years old, he told a story that would cling to me in dreams for years to come "The lone piper," he said, "holds a special place in the hearts of Scots." He told of us how after a battle, won or lost, the brave lone piper would play a lament to ease the journey of the souls of the fallen warriors. "Such a man," he said, "was Jamie Stewart who played far atop Edinburgh Castle ramparts at the annual gathering of the Tattoo. He played most wonderfully well. Twas a sad ending for a brawny lad." I frowned in dread of the ending. "Perhaps," he continued, "it was because the wind was unusually calm that night that the sudden gust caught him unawares." He paused and I held my breath. "And hurled him, not onto the courtyard but over the back and a two-hundred foot cliff." I burst into tears.
That night marked the first of many nights to come when I would see the piper blown from the wall and wake up with a cry. Over the years the dreams came less frequently but never completely left me. When my dad told me that for my high school graduation he was taking me to Scotland and we would be there at the time of the Tattoo, I was thrilled but secretly felt a little shiver of fear.
It was raining when we arrived in Scotland and was still raining when two days later we were in a taxi on our way to the Tattoo at Edinburgh Castle At the bottom of the hill leading up to the castle, we joined the multitude of bobbing black umbrellas making their way up the road. I was filled with anxious anticipation knowing that I would be seeing the actual wall where Jamie Stewart had walked a hundred years ago. Not long after we were seated in the courtyard stands, we were asked to furl our umbrellas so that no one's view would be blocked. Fortunately the rain had lessened to a misty drizzle. Suddenly, all lights were extinguished, followed by a shaft of light on the castle wall. My heart lurched and I felt light-headed. I was unprepared for this violent reaction. The haunting notes of the pipes filled my ears and I didn't know if I was hearing it or imagining it. The figure of the piper emerged into the light. He was wearing the red and green tartan of the Stewarts. I was gripped by a terrible dread. Below the ramparts, two figures in long white filmy dresses danced on a balcony in the gauzy mist. It gave the whole scene an other-worldly look.
"It's all right, Ellie," my dad said. He took my hand. "Remember, he's wearing a harness." I looked at him and his words sounded far away. I clung to his hand and closed my eyes, striving to gain control of my emotions. "It's all right," he repeated. I opened my eyes and forced myself to watch, with bated breath, the piper's stately march along the ramparts, heard the haunting notes of the lament. He reached the end of the wall and the shaft of light went out. I sat for a moment in stunned silence, then a giddy flood of relief washed through me as the whole arena became bathed in light and twenty magnificent black horses, their riders clad in scarlet, pranced onto the field.