Evening Song: Òran Feasgair

By Gil Waugh

Evening Song is a blend of Scottish language and history, original Celtic music, Einsteins relativity, a murder mystery, and a tale of eternal love.

"You'll no longer think of Canada as a prosaic place after reading Gil Waugh's tale of a magical Ottawa. His story mixes the metaphysical and the mysterious, the human and the transcendent, in a fascinating and compelling blend."

Robert J. Sawyer, Best Novel Hugo and Nebula Award Winner

Evening Song is a provocative and compelling piece of storytelling. A multi- voice, time-shifting narrative, this techno-fantasy mystery hits all the right notes! Waugh uses his deft touch to combine an intricate plot with fascinating characters while exploring such diverse issues as time and space, memory and reality, genetic engineering and more. A very satisfying and enriching read.

Joy Sallans, Educator and Writer

Gil Waugh offers fans of redoubtable Karen Simpson another riveting mystery in the series with the eerie, futuristic Evening Song.

Chapters online editors

Strap on your seatbelt for this wonderful tale of intrigue and murder. Waugh will pull you along on a multi-media experience which explores the limits of science, technology, the Internet, time travel and more...

Greg Bociek, M.D. M.Sc. FRCP(C)

Evening song is a gripping and fast paced detective thriller with a science-fiction undertone.

Doug McKercher, Publisher, Formian Press

Travel with Karen and Steve half way around the world and experience investigation and observation techniques. This book is true to form.

John Sullivan, General Manager, Triangle Investigation Agency

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 22, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595633593

Gil Waugh

Gil was born in Callander, a small town on Lake Nipissing in Northern Ontario. He is a classically trained trumpet player and electric bassist who toured as a rock musician in the 1970s. In the early 1980s after leaving full time music, he trained as a commercial pilot, worked as a licensed Private Investigator, and eventually ended up returning to university to studying Criminology, and then college to study computer programming. He is avidly interested in cognitive science and neural network applications, and for many years now, has designed, secured and maintained corporate networks. In the late 1990s, Gil wrote the Karen Simpson Sandalwood Detective agency series novels Mind Surfing and Evening Song – Òran Feasgair, which are still in print and which were originally published in 1999 went into a 2nd print edition in 2008. He has appeared on countless radio shows, was a feature guest on Global Television’s Mystery Ink and The Destiny Files, and in 2002 was a keynote speaker at the AMEC conference at the University of Mexico in Mexico City. In 1997, Gil co-founded Round the World Challenge (RWC) with Scottish-born World Cup ski champion and James Bond stuntman, Mike Nemesvary, who lives with quadriplegia after a training accident in the mid1980s. The goal of RWC was for Mike to drive his specially equipped truck around the world to raise funds and awareness of the abilities of people with disabilities. Mike and actor Christopher Reeve officially launched RWC in the spring of 2001, and in October of 2001, Mike succeeded in becoming the first quadriplegic to circumnavigate the globe. The trip won media attention all around the world, raised an estimated 1.5 million dollars, won Mike a Governor General’s meritorious service medal, and was captured in a feature-length documentary film.Gil hails from a proud mix of Highland and Lowland Scottish heritage which has strongly motivated him to embrace, support, and promote Gaelic language, music and culture. In February 2009, he rallied a core group of directors together and incorporated Comunn Gàidhlig Ottawa. In June of 2009, he formed the Ar n-Òran Gaelic choir which recorded their first CD only three months later. He continued to spearhead the Gaelic movement in Ottawa by organizing and holding the first-ever Mòd Canada in November 2009. Gil currently teaches the Gàidhlig course in the Celtic Studies program at the University of Ottawa, is a certified PDQB (Scotland) bagpipe tutor and runs the West-End Bagpiping Studio. He also is creative director/composer/recording artist and musician (Bass, Bagpipes, Irish Whistles, Vocals) with the increasingly popular Canadian Celtic hard rock band Fiùran ( https://fiuran.com/ )

Book preview

Contents

Preface

The Fugue

Now

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-2-

-3-

-4-

-5-

-6-

-7-

-8-

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-10-

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-12-

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Ahead to before

-15-

-16-

-17-

-18-

-19-

-20-

Back To Now

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-22-

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The Evermore

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-Bonus Features-

The Legend of Òran Feasgair

The Music of Evening Song

Compendium of Supplemental Reading:

To Olga,

my beloved wife.

Tha gaol agam ort!

Preface

Have you ever met someone and felt like you have known them forever? Looked out at the sea and felt it was somehow part of your past? I believe we all experience these feelings at one time or another during the course of our lives.

I suppose that some, with a different mystical inclination, may debate that this is a result of past lives, karma or the spirit world. That’s okay. I’m not trying to challenge different world views, but as none of us knows exactly what exists in the netherworld, it is my hope that this wee tale will provide some food for thought. If you’re the type who already has firm notions about what happens after death and understands all the mysteries of the universe, then enjoy this book as a work of fantastic fiction, a love story, a murder mystery or as another man’s folly in thought and belief.

It is my belief that the thoughts introduced above and throughout this tale may have physical roots built into our DNA, the very code we are assembled from. Ironically, very little is understood about this code as we madly map the human genome in our race for understanding. One thing is certain; we are a wondrous creation, an amazing integration of engineering and systems and it seems preposterous to me that this could be a random collision of matter. This book is inspired by these thoughts, by those we know and have known and those we love deeply without logic to explain why or how. The genetic memory idea for this book, in a very abstract way, came from ideas about occasional leakage from parallel dimensions in an attempt to bridge the time-space continuum using string theory and tackle those larger issues that we usually contemplate while lying on our backs looking at the heavens on warm summer evenings.

So what is Evening Song? Evening Song is a juxtaposition of the above discussion, musical and language bits from a proud Scottish Gaelic heritage, a little of Einstein’s relativity, a murder mystery and an enduring tale of eternal love.

Many people helped with this book along the way. I would like to extend warm and special thanks to:

Lisa Gross for her undying support, editing, proof-reading, art-work for the original edition, philosophical discussions about the central concepts; to editor John M. Kahane for helping to make this a better book; to Technical advisors: Fraser, F. Clarke, O.C., M.D., Ph.D. Professor Human Genetics, McGill University, Ray Oomen, B.Sc., Ph.D., Molecular Biochemistry, Director, Integrated Genomics at Sanofi Pasteur Irvine, Mark, Parrington, Ph.D., Dr. Hans C. von Baeyer, Chancellor Professor of Physics, The College of William and Mary for helping to make this more real; to my friends and advisors on matters Scottish: Deborah White, or as she preferred Gobnait Nic Fhilib for her guidance in my formative years of Gaelic ((Rest in peace teacher), Kath, Librarian, Islay High School, Inner Hebrides, Scotland, Dùghlas MacFhearchair, Professor of Celtic Studies, University of Ottawa, Peadar Morgan, Past Director Clì Scotland, Museum of Islay Life, Taigh-tasgaidh muinntir ile, Brian Palmer, Director of Ilreach, Islay, Scotland (who uses Apple based technology and is damn proud of it!) in helping to bring Gaelic reality to the book; for Music by TWNJC: Barker, Greg, Syncopated Ivories (Rest in peace my dear friend), J-P DesGroseilliers, Vocals, Jim Waugh, Accordion, Doug Gilchrist, Guitar, Sharon Liff, Vocals and Speaking, Jer Aranoff, Upright Bass and Saxophone for helping me to bring the musical side of this adventure to life; and finally my lovely wife Olga, for believing in me and supporting me during endless hours of editing and rewrites, and to my beloved children, Anna, Nathaniel and Cairistìona for loving me and keeping me young. I apologize to anyone I have missed.

Finally, the purpose of this book is to both entertain and provoke thought. Before getting started, why not take a minute to pour a cold glass of milk, pick up a few fresh cookies, find a comfy chair and prepare to become part of Karen and Steve’s first Sandalwood investigation.

Gil Waugh

Ottawa, 2008

Òran Feasgair (Evening Song)

©Gil Waugh 1998

Air mo ghairm tro chrìochan tìm

ann an òran feasgair

Air mo thàladh le pongan m’eòil

gu gràdh sìorraidh

A’cur fios orm, a ghaoil

le d’ fhonn binn

agus sinn a’ coinneachadh a-rithist

Le rann is rann

de rithim gun sgur

loidhne air loidhne

translated to Scots Gaelic by

Peadar Morgan, Past Director Clì, Scotland

English Version

Summoned through the bounds of time

in an evening song

Beckoned by familiar notes

to everlasting love

You call my love

with your sweet tune

and once more we meet

With endless round

of verséd rhyme

line after line

The Fugue

It is my lady; 0! It is my love: O! That she knew she were.

Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2

Now

Leaves crackled underfoot as Gisela Sacken walked through the Glebe on her way to Sunday morning service at Ottawa Community Christian church. She inhaled the crisp, fall air and enjoyed the way the frost sparkled on parked cars as the sun’s rays danced across them. Gisela’s crisp cadence was easy to pick out. She dug her heels in and did not drag her feet. Her well-coiffed hair and full-length designer jacket swayed with her walk, helping to propel her closer still to a weekly moment she cherished.

Then

Tormod MacKay gazed out across the water-smoothed rocks strewn in front of the lighthouse that had been his home on the island of Orsay, in Scotland’s Inner Hebrides, for the last twenty years. The pungent sea air, cold and damp, blew through his clothes as he stood and watched with a shiver as the sun burned the early morning mist away.

Now

She moved slowly through the pools of sunlight that collected in the breaks in the trees, seeking some radiant heat to offset the chill of the morning. The contrast between hot and cold, opposites working in symphony intrigued her. The universe seems to have its own system of checks and balances, she thought.

Gisela’s blonde, blunt cut framed her attractive visage, her figure perfectly complimented by a snug black wool dress. Her jewellery was simple yet elegant, her scarf, a regal black and gold, her expensive patent leather shoes matched her purse and other accessories. She had always been beautiful, but at forty-seven, was one of those rare people who seemed to get better looking with age.

Then

He could barely identify the bobbing craft making its way toward him. No doubt, the group that Steve and Karen had warned him about had hired the boat in the sleepy harbour of Portnahaven. It all seezmed so surreal. He fought the urge to believe it was just another group of naturalists come to enjoy the splendour of Orsay’s array of birds. This was home. It had never been easy for him to pull up roots and leave. It would be the second time in his life, but he knew that he must.

Now

She looked forward to Pastor Greg’s sermons. He seemed able to summon the Holy Spirit with his inspirational words. Last week, he breathed life into a riveting account of Lazarus, the friend Christ had resurrected from death. From Greg’s descriptive prose, you would swear that any minute, Lazarus would rise and walk out of the tranquil sanctuary. Listening to Greg took Gisela back to a time, many years before, when she had taken graduate courses in Fine Arts at the University of Montreal. Lost for a moment, she remembered this happy time, resplendent with lectures by passionate World Class professors.

Then

How had things gotten so out of control? He knew deep down that he was the last link in the chain. Without the notes, and him to extrapolate from them, they would have no idea how to make sense of the code. They were no closer now than they had been before T3. Oh sure, technology had gotten more sophisticated; the human genome had been completely sequenced, the petahertz chip had now taken the place of its many predecessors, nanotechnology had created NANOS, the new inter-disciplinary science, but somehow they had missed T3 and its research - thank God!

Now

She sat in the same seat, in the same pew she had every Sunday for the last twenty-three years. She said a customary prayer, and then sought the solace of familiar faces, meeting their glances with her magnanimous smile. It could have been any Sunday, but it wasn’t! This Sunday would be different from any other day in Gisela Sacken’s life. Despite her charming personality, unmistakable beauty, and almost obsessive attention to detail, in forty-six minutes she would be dead.

Now

-1-

Ottawa,September 2019

Pastor Greg’s topic of the day was Christ’s famous Sermon on the Mount.

Blessed are the meek, he asserted, his slight, pleasant British accent adding veracity, for they shall inherit the earth.

The novelty of holographic imagery had worn off over the last ten years as parishioners regularly watched a three-dimensional image of speakers with perfect visibility from any seat in their round lyceums. After the great Infowar of 2017, OCC’s sanctuary had been partially renovated. The war had not physically destroyed the infrastructure, but had created a resurgence in popularity in things and places of the spirit. As the masses returned to spirit-filled activity, they demanded the latest equipment technology had to offer, an altruistic application of what had almost destroyed them. OCC, like most churches of the late 20-teens, was wired to the Internet, allowing the disabled, elderly and others to participate in simulcasts from wherever they were. And, because it was on the net, all the latest gadgetry was available. A favourite in this mixed French/English community was GoFish-Pro, an instant translation program that rendered the speaker’s words into the listener’s choice of over thirty-six languages. But the most notable difference in the format of worship, was its interactive nature. Parishioners, whether physically present at OCC or participating remotely, could interrupt at any point during the meeting and query or challenge the speaker. A Query Management Program (QMP) ran on the church’s fibre-optic network, its job to queue and display queries as transmitted, then display them on a small holographic panel in three-dimensional space to the left of the speaker’s head.

Gisela had done her usual head count and determined who was and was not present at today’s service. With this ritual, she could calculate how much time would be allocated for contacting fellow parishioners in the week to come. She rarely felt uneasy in the house of God. There had been that one time, a few years ago, when a vagrant had come into the church, stood up and started urinating against the back wall, but that had been a real exception. This was an inner city church and its parishioners affectionately referred to the interesting array of people who stumbled into OCC. Today, OCC had another visitor who did not quite fit. To make it worse, Gisela caught him staring at her, his cold steely eyes making her feel uneasy.

She would make a point of saying hello to him when it came time to greet one another in the name of Christ. That is what Christ would have done, isn’t it? He would extend a loving hand to the derelict and homeless, to the smelly and the violent, to the tattooed biker, and the needle-popping junkie. Love them and they shall see Christ’s light shining through. She had seen this work on many occasions. In fact, it defied logic, and never ceased to amaze her.

Gisela was not a pious, self-worshipping, holier-than-thou believer. She knew her limitations very well. Sure, she suspected that the organist and the choir’s lead tenor were having a torrid extramarital affair, and that the youth minister was gay, but she unconditionally loved them all.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God, Greg continued. Mathew 5:3-10 was undoubtedly one of Christ’s greatest oratories as he imparted the tenets of spirit-filled living.

What was it about humanity, that it extinguished virtually all of its peacemakers? Gisela pondered. Jesus Christ, Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King … the list was endless. Whenever someone stood apart in the name of love, they were at risk of suffering a violent, thankless death, particularly if their message threatened the popular political opinions of the day. Stay quiet, let the majority rule, and life could be reasonably problem-free, but speak out against injustice, and life could get very nasty indeed.

Gisela thought about Murray, her husband, and his senseless death. It would be easy to condemn him for selling out on his team at work. They had trusted each other so much. He and Tormod were like brothers. What had happened to change him so much, and so quickly? Hard to believe it had already been twenty years since he had died and left her to raise Jack alone. The sleepless nights were unbearable at first. How did you explain such things to a five-year-old? No, it was simpler just to let the past remain the past. Gisela knew they had only had a mediocre marriage at the best of times, but Murray Sacken had been a good person. He had been a good provider who tried to create a harmonious family life for them. She was sure he had had second thoughts and remorse about what he had done. After all, she had been there, too, and had lived through those times with him.

Excuse me, madam, said an unfamiliar voice, may the peace of Christ be with you.

Strange that he had come to her, she thought as she took the hand he had extended into her own.

And with you, young man, Gisela said as she looked deep into his eyes, analyzing, looking for anything that would tell her more about him. Something looked too friendly, too quick, and too bold as he looked back at her… as he looked through her!

It’s her all right, he thought. Frank described her perfectly, right down to the mole on the right side of her neck. Judas condemned Christ with a kiss, how appropriate that I do it with a handshake. He got up and left quietly, proceeding purposefully to the spot he’d meticulously chosen.

The Lord bless you and keep you… Greg said with his honey-textured voice, blessing the congregation for the week to come.

Where had he gone? Gisela wondered, turning around, looking for the young man with the ponytail and piercing black eyes. What a shame, she thought; it would have been nice to take him out for lunch after service.

This was Gisela’s practice for all newcomers. Some were shy and didn’t want any part of going out for lunch with a doting motherly type, others were positively delighted. She enjoyed the opportunity for interesting and lively conversation.

Georgette Andrews looked over at Gisela and when their eyes met, offered her a warm smile. She had often expressed how delightful it was to be around Gisela. Everyone she knew at OCC knew and admired Gisela, admired her faith. Georgette found it ironic though, how people could know one another for years and remain clueless about what really made the other tick.

Church was out, the conversations over coffee spent, and the day’s plans made. People were spilling out of the front door from the narthex to the cement steps, to the street and to their cars. The Anderson’s left, as did the Franklin’s, then the Gladman’s and the McKenzie’s.

Thanks again for a lovely sermon, Gisela said as she opened the door, flashed a warm smile at the pastor, and slipped outside onto the cement deck.

A few cracks, like the sound of a car backfiring, rang out across Elgin Street. Gisela fell into a ragged heap on the ground. An expression of pain reflected her swift passage from life. Gisela Sacken was dead, and no one remembered the visitor who had been at the service only moments before. Ironically, she would have.

-2-

It was one of those spectacular, perfect days. The sky was blue as far as the eye could see, the temperature neither hot nor cold as it brushed the skin. The sweet smell of hardwood wafted by and mixed with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee coming from the kitchen in the small log cabin perched on the edge of MacGregor Lake. A bedroom community nestled deep in the Gatineau Hills, MacGregor Lake was located just north of Ottawa, Canada’s capital. Ottawa was a city of striking contrasts, a bustling urban metropolis, surrounded by some of the most beautiful parkland and wildlife in North America.

The large yellow and white tents were meticulously set up in the back yard, the poles decorated with blue bows. At first glance, the setup had the air of being casual, but the tables were covered with fine linens, china and crystal on the tablecloths. The live band, a four-piece combo, was set up on a small covered stage in front of the lake. Their repertoire included Moon River, Tenderly, and other light jazz standards. When they saw Karen standing in the back doorway of the Simpson homestead, they started into Lionel Ritchie’s Hello, Karen and Steve’s chosen song. It was a song with special significance for both of them and was fitting that they had chosen it for their wedding.

The pastor, a rotund, balding man in his mid-fifties, watched as Karen gracefully made her way toward Steve through the rows of chairs set up on the lawn. By the time she arrived at the front, she and Steve were already lost deep in each other’s eyes.

Karen Anne Simpson, do you take Steve Andrew Johnson to have and to hold, to take care of until the day you both shall die?

I do.

Steve Andrew Johnson, do you take Karen Anne Simpson to have and to hold, to take care of until the day you both shall die?

I do, he said as he reached up, ran a hand along