items and one filled with historical documents.
Just as we lifted the lid on the first of the many boxes, our host popped her head in—the phone call was for Deloris.
“I leave the library for just a few minutes . . . ” she muttered. “Somehow, they can find me anywhere.”
Deloris made her way from the room as I replaced the lid on the box. I’d wait for her to return. It seemed that it would be rude, almost mean, to look for the historical documents without her, since she seemed so excited (almost more than I was) to find a clue to my ancestry.
I leaned back against one of the boxes in the office and looked around, fine with having a moment to check out this MacLaoch property, too. Newer than a lot of the town, this stone building definitely still hearkened back to the eighteen hundreds—the heavy wood of the bookshelves and desk solidified the feel.
It wasn’t that big of a room, and most of it was obscured by cardboard. The need to be useful became overwhelming, and I decided to start in on the boxes without Deloris. They’d either be historical documents or not, and I wouldn’t mess with the stuff that was not. I opened the lid on the box we’d been about to go through before Deloris had been pulled away by her phone call. On first appearance it was what we were looking for: file folders piled together. I pulled out the first folder and opened it to what started like a very personal letter to the current MacLaoch clan chieftain. I was about to slap it shut and move on to the next box—ready, as a guest already nervous about stepping on toes, to assume that this indicated that the box’s entire contents was too recent for my needs—but then the name Minory caught me like an anchor. Before I could stop, I’d read it in full.
Dearest son and nephew (for though you are my nephew by blood, you have always been as close to me as would be a son),
It is with grievous heart that I write to you. I know that it is not long now until I die—the doctors, despite all their knowledge, do not know how to cure me. They can, however, with all their knowledge, tell me that my foe—this so-called incurable cancer—will kill me in a few months’ time.
Right now you are no doubt deep in the wilderness of some foreign country bringing honor and pride to your family name, though I fear I will not last long enough to see your triumphant return. Thus, the reason for this letter. Over the years, I have imparted to you a working understanding of your duties once I leave this earth, but all that I have taught you wanes sadly when compared with the most difficult and arduous responsibilities of this job.
No doubt you have scoffed at the curse on the MacLaoch chieftains—as a boy, I played them off as well—though I will tell you from experience that it is real. And while I have just a breath left, I will tell you the history of what I know of it.
Several generations of MacLaoch chieftains ago, there began a movement. A movement to discover the full depth of the curse and alleviate our suffering by meeting its demands. It was first done by the twentieth clan chief—it is documented that he spent countless hours researching the Minory lineage as well as local folklore on the curse. The one thing that remained constant in all versions of the curse he heard is that the pain and suffering of the MacLaoch chieftain must be as great as that felt by Lady MacLaoch, and only a Minory could lift the curse, and then only voluntarily. With this, he began cataloging each and every ancient Minory throughout history, slowly and painstakingly finding the descendants to discover a modern-day Minory. Sadly, his life ended before his work could be completed. It was only to be taken up again by our twenty-ninth clan chief—you will, I hope, excuse me for not using their full names as it pains me to write even the amount that I have already—who began where the twentieth left off. It is through his work that I give you this grievous news
Just as we lifted the lid on the first of the many boxes, our host popped her head in—the phone call was for Deloris.
“I leave the library for just a few minutes . . . ” she muttered. “Somehow, they can find me anywhere.”
Deloris made her way from the room as I replaced the lid on the box. I’d wait for her to return. It seemed that it would be rude, almost mean, to look for the historical documents without her, since she seemed so excited (almost more than I was) to find a clue to my ancestry.
I leaned back against one of the boxes in the office and looked around, fine with having a moment to check out this MacLaoch property, too. Newer than a lot of the town, this stone building definitely still hearkened back to the eighteen hundreds—the heavy wood of the bookshelves and desk solidified the feel.
It wasn’t that big of a room, and most of it was obscured by cardboard. The need to be useful became overwhelming, and I decided to start in on the boxes without Deloris. They’d either be historical documents or not, and I wouldn’t mess with the stuff that was not. I opened the lid on the box we’d been about to go through before Deloris had been pulled away by her phone call. On first appearance it was what we were looking for: file folders piled together. I pulled out the first folder and opened it to what started like a very personal letter to the current MacLaoch clan chieftain. I was about to slap it shut and move on to the next box—ready, as a guest already nervous about stepping on toes, to assume that this indicated that the box’s entire contents was too recent for my needs—but then the name Minory caught me like an anchor. Before I could stop, I’d read it in full.
Dearest son and nephew (for though you are my nephew by blood, you have always been as close to me as would be a son),
It is with grievous heart that I write to you. I know that it is not long now until I die—the doctors, despite all their knowledge, do not know how to cure me. They can, however, with all their knowledge, tell me that my foe—this so-called incurable cancer—will kill me in a few months’ time.
Right now you are no doubt deep in the wilderness of some foreign country bringing honor and pride to your family name, though I fear I will not last long enough to see your triumphant return. Thus, the reason for this letter. Over the years, I have imparted to you a working understanding of your duties once I leave this earth, but all that I have taught you wanes sadly when compared with the most difficult and arduous responsibilities of this job.
No doubt you have scoffed at the curse on the MacLaoch chieftains—as a boy, I played them off as well—though I will tell you from experience that it is real. And while I have just a breath left, I will tell you the history of what I know of it.
Several generations of MacLaoch chieftains ago, there began a movement. A movement to discover the full depth of the curse and alleviate our suffering by meeting its demands. It was first done by the twentieth clan chief—it is documented that he spent countless hours researching the Minory lineage as well as local folklore on the curse. The one thing that remained constant in all versions of the curse he heard is that the pain and suffering of the MacLaoch chieftain must be as great as that felt by Lady MacLaoch, and only a Minory could lift the curse, and then only voluntarily. With this, he began cataloging each and every ancient Minory throughout history, slowly and painstakingly finding the descendants to discover a modern-day Minory. Sadly, his life ended before his work could be completed. It was only to be taken up again by our twenty-ninth clan chief—you will, I hope, excuse me for not using their full names as it pains me to write even the amount that I have already—who began where the twentieth left off. It is through his work that I give you this grievous news
Similar Books
