The Five Crosses

The Five Crosses

Sonya stood outside Dr. Bergstrom’s office thinking she was in another world, reality slowly slipping away from her. Thirty minutes later she realized she was sitting in her car with no recollection of how she got there. Damn. The cancer was still growing like Miracle Grow on weeds through her brain and all her options have been exhausted. No more chemo, no more clinical trials, no more experimental drugs. Phenyalnarscolgeal cancer was her nemesis and after four years of battle, it had won. She said in the beginning that they could throw everything including the kitchen sink at her and she was not going to give up, but now she finally realized the kitchen sink and everything else in that proverbial house was gone. She was all alone and all she wanted to do was go home and recede into the darkness. 

While her husband Les drove them home Sonya thought ironically at what a perfect April day it was in Texas. The Bluebonnets were blooming in their magnificence, children were playing outside laughing, chasing balloons, a mother was beaming a smile looking down at her baby carriage – all mocking her, or so it seemed, laughing at her and what would be her eventual demise. Like a floodgate bursting open, her emotions turned to bitterness, remorse and hate. She had accepted the cancer but never once thought it would beat her.

She was a good person, a kind person, always helped the underdog and had fought an impressive four-year battle so far. She was a McCallum, of strong Scottish descent with warrior blood in her and most important she had finally found a close relationship with God. God was always the caring father figure in her life, replacing her pathetic, biological one who left her and her mother at age four to become a loan shark in Las Vegas. That was her reality, that was the hardest, how God had just let this happen. Nothing now mattered to her, since God did not care for her, she would bid Him farewell with one last thought. She would do this without Him, spend what time she had left with Les, her family and friends, the real things in her life.

The following months as Sonya’s condition deteriorated at an alarming rate, her mental state became more forlorn. Les tried everything to comfort her and bring her solace. Other than Les, her best friend Rob was always beside her, regaling tales of their college days together, working at the same grocery store in high school and all the karaoke parties they hosted with their friends. They had been bonded soul-friends from the first time they met. Even with all the stories Rob told, nothing seemed to give Sonya any peace. He and Les were at their wits end and did not know what to do. Then one day Rob stopped by the house, Sonya had now been confined to bed, finding it harder and harder to get up. Les informed Rob that Sonya was now starting to hallucinate and that most days were “bad” days. Rob walked in the room, “So how is my favorite girl doing today?” Sonya’s eyes widened, she sat straight up and started laughing hysterically. “What in God’s name, why are you wearing a kilt?” 

“Well, the Highland Games are today, and the McCallum team is in the Caber Toss challenge.” Sonya continued to laugh hysterically. Rob and Les just took a step back in shock but happy to see her beautiful smile. “That’s the funniest thing I think I have ever heard.” 

“Well, were gonna win in honor of you my friend.” Rob said, “Don’t waste your time on my account my friend, go if you want to but it won’t make a difference, not like God is going to care.” Rob just let out a long sigh, kissed Sonya on the cheek and started singing The Parting Glass as he walked out of the room. It rained all day long at the Highland games, but Rob was in great spirits at representing Sonya and her family. In the end, Clan McCallum won two of the athletic events and covered in mud from head to foot, Rob accepted the trophy proud to bring it home for Sonya. When Rob walked up to the house, Les was outside and had been crying. They had had a big fight about God, life, death, Les’ refusal to look into a fly-by-night clinic in Peru that promised “fascinating results”. Rob gave him a hug, gave him his house key and told him to spend the rest of the weekend just being by himself.

When Rob walked in her room, Sonya’s face was flushed with dried tears, but she did manage to break a smile when Rob came in soaking wet. “I’m pretty sure my family tartan never looked like that, you’re a mess.” 

“A muddy mess, so what’s wrong, why did you make Les cry again?” She threw a pillow at him which just caused the caked-on mud to fly everywhere. “You’re an ass” she barked. Looking down now at the muddy pillow Rob replied, “Well those stains aren’t going to come out, talk to me Sonya, I told Les to stay at my house for a few days.” 

“I’m dying Rob, and I don’t want to give up, I don’t know what to do, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to be mad at God or hurt Les or annoy you…” 

“You always annoy me girl…. what do I need to do?” Rob half smiled. “Just be here with me, talk to me, help me get my courage back.” 

“You’ve always had your courage, it’s still there, maybe you just forgot you had it.” Rob replied encouragingly. “You know my grandmother used to tell me the history of the MacCallum’s…said we always were a warrior lot, and she used to tell me the story of the Five Crosses. I loved listening to those stories, and I would get lost in them and they made me happy. If I have to face letting go…” and taking his hand, “help me let go Rob.” Rob had known Sonya’s grandmother Helena very well and loved all things Scotland anyway. He knew the stories himself when he used to visit her in the hospital. “Okay friend, we’ll start tomorrow.”

“Thank you, and Rob, please tell the stories in a clean kilt.”

It would be another two weeks before Rob could begin his stories, that following morning Sonya had a seizure and was confined to a hospital with no visitors allowed. It was now late July and Les told him to start preparing himself for the inevitable. When he walked in the room he was greeted with a “It’s about damn time you got here.” Rob held her gaze for a long time, holding back emotions he was barely able to contain, looking at the mirror of his friend he could barely recognize. “Well, the first thing your grandmother used to say about the MacCallum’s was they always had patience.” Pulling up a chair alongside the bed he began his story telling.

 

The Story of the Celtic Cross Banner…

The McCallum family, one of the oldest but not notorious clans in Scotland, through the centuries always held a special place in their hearts for the image of the Celtic cross. Going back hundreds of years the cross in one way or the other was there guiding the McCallum family and even in some instances saving the lives of some of its members. The first story takes place back in 1542 with Nicodemus McCallum. It was a terrible time for the kingdom. King Henry VIII had broken with Rome and creating the Church of England had abolished the Catholic religion and dissolved all the monasteries. This caused a huge upheaval throughout the British Isles but especially to the farmers in the northern lands that took up arms against the king. This infamous revolt became known as the Pilgrimage of Grace and involved “crazy Nicodemus” given that name for his loud and boisterous preaching in the streets that he was known for. Nicodemus had been born in Scotland but lived in York where the Pilgrimage started. 

Regulators from King Henry’s court were swift in dealing with anyone showing opposition and without trial sentenced all the main rebels to death. Nicodemus watched as several of his friends and neighbors and especially the leader, Robert Aske take the scaffold and give his life. He was determined to avenge their deaths and keep the rebellion going by carrying the symbol of the Pilgrimage, a banner with an image of the crucifixion through the streets of York. The Cumberland massacre that came a few days later, changed his mind. The innocent women and children, wives, sisters, sons and daughters of the men that were just hanged, came to retrieve their bodies. The regulators who thought the group was coming after them, systematically cut them down and as a warning to any further rebellion hung their bodies from the trees in a nearby grove. The regulators were now in pursuit of the few, including Nicodemus that were fleeing in escape. Still carrying the banner, Nicodemus had managed to make it to the border where in the village of Berwick his sister, Susanna resided. He pounded on the door to be let in as the regulators were right on his tail. His sister, seeing the banner and the approaching men, hid him in the barn. They surrounded the homestead and demanded that Nicodemus come out. He appeared and they said they had identified him by the banner he was carrying. 

At once he began to wail and yell, waving his arms back and forth shouting scripture and gospel stories. Susanna knew what he was up to and started laughing, “You must have the wrong man, that’s why we call him crazy Nicodemus, always thinking he’s John the Baptist, hold on, I think I have the answer.” Susanna disappeared into the barn and moments later reappeared. “Is this what you thought you saw?” Tucked under her arm was a folded banner. She unfolded it to reveal a worn, stained cloth with a picture of a knight kneeling down beside a huge stone Celtic cross. Our granddad carried this in the old rose war, my crazy brother is always carrying it with him, sleeps with it too, I’ll sell it to you for five shillings.” Maybe it was because it was late in the day and the regulators were tired and just wanted to go home or the fact that now Nicodemus in one of the best acting jobs of his life was now talking to the barn door, but they gave up their pursuit and headed back to London. From that day forward Nicodemus became a fervent church goer and instilled in his children a reverent respect for the cross and all it stood for.

“That was my grandmother’s favorite one, she said old Nicodemus went on to have sixteen children.” smiled Sonya.

“Ahh that’s why your family reunions have hundreds of people at them.” replied Rob with an arched eyebrow.

 

The Story of the Iron Celtic Cross…

The spring of 1668 had already been a wet and rainy season for Christopher McCallum, the third earl of Bendentisire and his two brothers Andrew and Roland. After being in Edinburgh a fortnight for securing more land grants from the higher courts he was praying he would make it to his estate in Inverness by nightfall. About noon gray clouds came rolling over the picturesque countryside of the Scottish moors followed by heavy rain. 

By two o’clock it was as dark as night with the wind whipping up a frenzy in all directions. The three brothers made it to the River Ness which would take them to Loch Douchfour right beside their home. They piled in a small boat and launched off to the middle of the river not realizing their mistake until it was too late. The swift currents pulled the boat faster than they could manage and they soon became aware they had no control of the craft. Their lanterns were extinguished by the now large rogue waves cresting over the sides of the boat and they were thrown about like rag dolls. 

This continued for another few miles until the wooden craft hit a craig in the middle of the river and upended the boat, breaking it apart, throwing all three men up into the air. Andrew hit a jetty of rocks and was killed instantly. Roland had never known how to swim and despite Christopher’s best efforts at keeping him afloat, was pulled under the merciless current of the river. The storm was only getting worse as Christopher, weeping with guilt, made it to shore and traversed into the forest. Having lost all his bearings and sense of direction he thought it best to just keep going into the dense foliage and try to find refuge. Resting on a fallen tree he held tight to his St. Christopher medal that Andrew had given him for his birthday. He prayed to the traveling saint to help him through this madness and provide safe passage. 

The wind turned direction and suddenly made a high pitch noise. Leaves and wood and all types of debris were flying everywhere and through a clearing he could see a dark, cone shaped shadow barreling towards him. He had heard of cyclones, and even seen one from far away, but never this close. He ran as fast as he could as this “Finger of God” followed in pursuit. He prayed to the Trinity, to Mary to all the angels and saints as his muscles burned in pain from running so fast. Just as he was about to give up hope, he saw a familiar image. Through the low-lying clouds and blinding rain, he saw a church steeple and, on the top, almost beckoning him to follow was an iron Celtic cross. Christopher ran another 50 yards and a small cottage-like church appeared. 

Christopher burst inside, bolted the door and crawled under a pew, continuing to pray, finally passing out from exhaustion. The next day he awoke to sunlight pouring through the windows and sounds of birds chirping in the distance. When he walked out, he noticed the cyclone’s path came right up to the church and then it seemed to have made a sharp right sparring himself and the sacred building. He looked up at the Celtic cross and said a silent ‘thank you’. Later he would have the church rededicated to the Church of St. Andrew and St. Roland and would tell his children and future generations the story of the brave McCallum brothers.

“Someday when you go to Scotland, you’ll have to visit the church and light a candle for me.”

“Uumm, maybe, those things cost like three dollars each.” Rob said sarcastically.

“Continue with the next story, butthead,” Sonya said, rolling her eyes.

 

The Story of the Celtic Cross Shield…

The drums were now beating in full rhythm and the vague sound of bagpipes could be heard in the distance. Casden McCallum, 2nd lieutenant of the western flank, was ready for battle. The Jacobite cause to restore the Bonnie Prince to the throne seemed to have united many of the clans, McLeod, Frasier, and of course McCallum under one banner. The victorious battles of Falkirk Muir and Prestonpans, assured them of a morning victory today. There was no prouder place for a Scotsman than on this battlefield in Culloden on that April day in 1745. Despite the courage and determination of the Jacobite’s that day, they were no match for the superiority of the British reinforcements that outnumbered them three to one. Caseden and the other military leaders thought their best course of action would be to charge head on into the British ranks, surprising them and catching them off guard. 

They were wrong. Trudging through a muddy bog half the length of the battlefield slowed the Scottish army which caused them to lose the high ground. The British wasted no time in retaliation and unleashed all their fire power in one grand charge. Within minutes, hundreds of Scottish men were ruthlessly cut down and Casden saw nothing but a sea of redcoats coming towards his breaking flank. They would be mercilessly cut down if he did not provide a distraction. Standing on one of the battlements he screamed a battle cry which caught the attention of the red coats advance and began to follow him. His plan worked which gave his flank precious time to retreat. Casden was leading the British in circles and a few still standing Scotts bravely rode into the enemy ranks causing commotion and confusion. 

A British general, Parker Doyle, who had seen Casden from the beginning and realized his strategy, chased him into the heart of the battle. Their cat and mouse game continued until Doyle dismounted Casden from his horse and the two enemies began fighting on the ground in one-on-one combat. Casden would later tell his sons and grandchildren that the general had overpowered him and had pinned him to the ground ready to deal a last deadly blow. Out of the corner of his eye, Casden saw a wooden shield in arms reach. He grabbed the shield which had the emblem of the Celtic cross etched on both sides and wielded it in front of Doyle, causing him to lose his balance. Casden threw him off and gave a swift slash with his sword and won the fight. Casden was able to rejoin the few retreating soldiers and it was always believed that his distraction that day was what gave the Bonnie Prince time to escape to the Isle of Skye and then on to France. The shield hung over the mantle at the McCallum ancestral home for generations.

“That was always my favorite story,” remarked Rob.

“Of course, it is, macho men in skirts killing each other with swords, how manly…”

Pointing down at the red and black Stewart kilt he was wearing he said, “it’s not a skirt it’s…”

“Yes, yes, yes, you history dork, it’s a piece of clothing derived from the Highlands, worn by blah, blah, blah….continue with the next story…”

Rob and Sonya both glared at each other for a moment then laughed.

“No pain meds for you today,” joked Rob.

 

The Story of the Silver Celtic Cross…

Douglass McCallum had loved Serena O’Connor since he was a wee lad of ten years old. From attending the annual Christmas dinner given by their mutual laird to the Highland games played in the summer on Lake Tummel, it was truly love at first sight. In the small church of St. Andrew and St. Roland it was his greatest desire to make Serena his wife even though it was the farthest thing that her parents had wanted. 

Despite it being 1867, it still mattered to many in keeping to your same social class. Serena was from the upper merchant class of ship builders in Edinburgh while Douglass’s family were just small silversmiths. The reception diner would be held at the McCallum home in Dornoch, more of a fortified lodge but still the grandest building in the village. The reception was bursting with music, laughter and merrymaking and Douglass noticed that Serena’s parents were the last to arrive and immediately had their noses pointed upward and a look of disdain on their faces. That was until they noticed how many nobles and their own business acquaintances that were in attendance. They had intentionally insisted on a private ceremony as not to embarrass themselves. Was there something these guests knew that the obstinate couple did not? 

Douglass and Serena walked over to her parents and greeted them. They engaged in small talk until a sound of a bugle was heard outside. The crowd gathered close to the great hall and through the doorways a royal courtier entered, “Lords, Ladies, distinguished guests, Mr. and Mrs. Douglass McCallum, the Lord Chamberlain Conyingham.” At once a tall, portly man, wearing the finest powdered wig decked in the finest of gold clothiers came dashing in. Immediately the crowd bowed and curtseyed as the Chamberlain moved his way through to the foursome. “Ahh Douglass, Serena… on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, I bring you her blessing and best wishes on your marriage and a life filled with happiness.” Bowing again, Douglass replied “We are honored and humbled by your presence Lord Chamberlain.” 

“Oh, fiddlesticks now that all of THAT is over with, get me a brandy my boy and let’s talk business.” Douglass could hardly keep from smiling, “Of course mi Lord, but first let me introduce you to Serena’s parents, William and Rachel O’Connor.” 

“Charmed, you must be very proud of your daughter for such a good catch, landing the best silversmith in Scotland.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Rachel responded in disbelief. “I’m sorry, perhaps in all of Britain, why after catching the Queen’s eye over the goblets he made for me, Buckingham Palace is filled to the brim with McCallum silver, which is also why I have come my boy, the Queen herself will be there for the unveiling.” Rachel looked like she was about to faint, “The unveiling?” she asked. “Your son-in-law created a silver centerpiece for the altar in the Queens Chapel inside Westminster Abbey, a beautiful, high, glorious Celtic cross, good Lord I thought you merchants kept up with what’s going on in London society, McCallum silver has become a household name.” The Lord Chamberlain gave Serena’s parents a cast-off look and then led the newlyweds to another room where more toasts and well wishes were being made. Never again from that day did the O’Connor’s ever look down on another’s station in life.

“That was my favorite story,” sighed Sonya.

“Of course it is, the sappy, romantic novel one,” Rob replied, rolling his eyes.

 

The Story of the Celtic Cross Blanket…

Helena was a daddy’s girl through and through, and William McCallum being a single father adhered to her every whim and treated her as a perfect princess. So when the Emphysema became chronic for William and he complained about always being cold, she knitted him the finest lap blanket her saved allowance could buy. When Prom came around it wasn’t a new dress that Helena wanted, but only the heaviest wool that would keep her daddy warm. William was noted for being the lead storyteller for Clan McCallum at all the Highland games, festivals and family reunions and everyone gathered from far and wide to listen to his stories. 

So of course, Helena knitted a Celtic cross in the middle of the blanket with four separate patches of smaller crosses on each side to remember all the stories of old. William was overjoyed with the gift only love could make and for the first time that Helena remembered, showed her wet eyes. His wish was to be buried with the blanket, so when the time came on a cold day in November of 1973, Helena adhered to her father’s request but kept one of the squares for herself in remembrance. On her 98th birthday she gave the patch to Sonya with the express wish to make sure she would continue to tell the family stories of the McCallum legacy. 

She held Sonya’s hand and said We McCallum’s always looked to the cross for strength, for bravery, for perseverance. Through adversity and hopelessness that cross has always saved us, always protected us, and always will, it will always guide us to the light.”

Rob had been telling the stories to Sonya over a two-week period. As he finished the last few words he looked down at his friend and began to weep. With a labored, heavy breathing, she was fading fast, a shell of her former self that the hideous cancer had eaten away. Despite all she had endured, the warrior inside of her came out. She gave one of her beautiful smiles and whispered, “Thank you.” The next night she had a final surge of energy and with Rob and her family watching, Les led a slow dance with her across their bedroom floor. The following morning, she passed. 

At the funeral Rob would give one of the three eulogies celebrating Sonya’s remarkable life. Les thanked him for all that he did and from his pocket took out a worn crocheted square. “What’s this?” asked Rob. It’s the patch that Helena made for her father that she gave to Sonya all those years ago.” Rob stared down at the knitted cross and looked at it in disbelief, “Sonya said she couldn’t find it, I looked everywhere for it last week, all over the house and never found it.” Les pulled Rob into a hug, both men sobbed. 

“Just before…she left, she said she finally felt at peace, was ready to let go and was going to follow ‘that old Celtic cross’ maybe it found her.” Rob looked up at the big bright blue sky and smiled, another McCallum, another cross, another story, to tell another day.

 

Dedicated to the memory of Sonya McCallum Harp

Original Short Stories