“Much has changed.”
“And for the better,” Ana said firmly. “Thank you for speaking to me in my own tongue. That’s respectful of you. And you’ve come a long way.”
“We came for our father,” said the younger man, stepping forward. He put down his bag, and Dolphin could hear a rattle of bones.
“Kirike.” Ana’s face twisted into a smile and she held out her arms. Kirike came forward and embraced his aunt; he was a stocky man, built like his Pretani father, and he overwhelmed the slight, hunched woman. Ana reached back for Dolphin. “Come to me, child. You two haven’t see each other for much too long.”
So Dolphin came face to face with Kirike, the boy she’d grown to love as they grew up together, the man she’d lost in the great falling-out after the Pretani war. She felt fifteen again as the two of them stood there on the mound. “You haven’t changed.” She touched his bearded cheek. “And yet you have. Does that make sense?”
“No.” He smiled. There were lines around his eyes and on his forehead, under a single kill scar. “But you always did talk in riddles.”
“When we were young I thought you looked like your mother, Zesi. Now you look more of a Pretani, like your father.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. Because I can still see my Kirike in there, under all the years.”
He slapped his belly. “Under all the weight, you mean.” He leaned forward, and said a few halting words in the tongue of Dolphin’s mother, the tongue of the True People from across the ocean. “You still smell of the sea.”
Dolphin laughed. “And you of the forest. You must meet my children. Four of them. All boys.”
He grinned. “I left my own litter at home. Three girls!”
She held his gaze for one more heartbeat. “What might have been?”
“What indeed? But we must make the most of the world as we find it.”
“Well,” Ana barked, “that’s an attitude I’ve been arguing against my whole life, I must say.” She hobbled forward to Kirike’s bag, poking it with her stick. “I take it this is the old man?”
“Let me.” Resin stepped forward, opened the bag, and picked out the Root’s skull to hand to Ana.
Ana took it carefully and touched one cheekbone with a bent fingertip. “Poor Shade! He was a good man, you know—better than the rest of you Pretani put together, and certainly better than his father and brother, who were both little more than animals.”
Dolphin murmured, “Ana—”
“No, it’s true, and it has to be said. If anybody deserved to be born into a better world it was him. I always thought, you know, that if he’d been born in Etxelur he’d have made a good priest. He had the right instinct about people.” She glared at Sunta. “Shame you never met him, child. He might have taught you a few things.” Carefully she handed the skull back to Kirike and turned her face to the sun, closing her streaming eyes. “It’s a beautiful day—best of the year so far. Why wait? Isn’t it a good enough day to lay poor old Shade down for his final sleep?”
Dolphin glanced at the Pretani. “It’s not the equinox yet, Ana. We haven’t arranged a proper ceremony, a procession—”
“Well, I know that. But would Shade care?” Ana turned to the Pretani. “From what I remember of your father—”
Acorn said, “You’re right, Ana. He was a warrior who longed for peace, a leader who longed for modesty. He wouldn’t want a great fuss.”
“Yes.” Ana reached out, and Acorn took her hands. “Just us, then, his family and those who knew him. Anyhow there’s time to change your mind; it will take me long enough to make my way to the Northern Barrage, curse these knees. And maybe our new earthworks will put on a show—they should be draining the barrages today.” But Dolphin could see none of the Pretani knew what that meant. ”Dolphin, child, are you still there?
Dolphin took her arm. “This way, Ana. The first step down’s just ahead of you.”
88
By the time they had reached the Northern Barrage, following Ana at her crawling pace, quite a crowd had gathered to follow them, some from Etxelur itself, and snailheads, World River folk, others who had come here for the Spring Walk—and Eel folk whose parents or grandparents had once been brought here as slaves. The children ran and played, each of them covering ten times the distance walked by the solemn adults.
One little girl, aged seven, was cheeky enough to come and walk beside Ana, trying to hold her hand. This was Zuba, granddaughter of Arga—known as a formidable swimmer, as her grandmother had once been. The world was full of children, and there always seemed to be more of them in these first bright days of every spring, playing among the first flowers. Dolphin thought of her own children, the four boys who were all but grown already, and the two others who had died young. How many of the children playing today would live to see ten years, or twenty? Let them have this brief day in the sun, and enjoy it as they could.
Having walked across the Bay Land the party climbed a line of stranded dunes, and then came upon the Northern Barrage. Stretching roughly east to west, this wall ran the length of the old tidal causeway between Flint Island and the mainland, but had been greatly extended. The southern face of smoothly worked sandstone shone in the sunlight, while the sea, excluded and tamed, lapped passively at the northern face.
Ana and her party climbed up onto the dyke from the abutment at its island end, and then walked along the stone-clad upper surface. Only Ana, Dolphin, Kirike, Acorn, Resin and Sunta walked along the wall, while those who had followed watched from below. Kirike bore the bag of bones, as he had all the way from Pretani. Ana walked with her arm linked in Dolphin’s. Aside from the gull-like shouts of the playing children, the only sounds up here were the wash of the waves against the wall, and the tap-tap of Ana’s stick on the stone.
Dolphin looked to her right, over the sea, where Ana’s last great project, the long dykes that had been built around the site of the drowned Mothers’ Door, was all but complete. This morning people were still working on the tops of the dykes, laden with sacks and ropes, and silhouetted against the sun-dazzled brilliance of the sea—but the dykes were intact enough for the long labor of excluding the sea to have begun. Today, close to the spring equinox, the tide would be exceptionally low, and Dolphin knew that the great gates could be opened in the walls to allow more water within to drain away. This was the show Ana had hoped might be fortuitously mounted to impress the Pretani, and to honor Shade.
But the bemused Pretani, staring at the earthworks, clearly understood little of what they were seeing.
The party reached the center of the dyke’s curving face and came to a halt. Here the heavy facing stones had been lifted from the upper surface of the dyke, and cists—small, stone-walled tombs—had been dug into the mud and rock of the interior.
Kirike seemed surprised to have come here. “I wondered where we were walking, away from Flint Island . . . You would inter him here? Not in the middens?”
“We don’t use the old middens anymore,” Ana said. The breeze off the sea picked up, and whipped her stringy hair about her face; Acorn brushed back the graying wisps. “Thank you, child . . . It was after the war, after your mother died in my arms, Kirike, at the hands of your father. Zesi’s were the first bones I placed here, in the wall. Since then we have dismantled the middens, and we brought the bones of all the dead to this place, the dyke, and to the Eastern Barrage too, across the mouth of the bay.”
She turned to Kirike, her blank eyes questing. “This is my plan, Kirike. Let the sea walls be more than mere mounds of timber and mud and stone to our people. Let our children know that this is the resting place of their ancestors, who survived the Great Sea and built the first walls. And let them know that they are protected not just by mute, dead stone but by the last legacy of those grandmothers—their very bones.” She sniffed. “People think this is a trick. Jurgi was always accusing me of manipulation, of twisting custom for my own needs, and inventing others where none suite
d. Well, what of it? Jurgi himself lies in the wall now, keeping a watchful eye on the sea. And now you too, Shade of the Pretani, will join my sister in the long sleep. You Pretani—Resin, if there’s anything you want to say . . .”
“No,” Resin growled. “All the words were said in Pretani. The gods need no more words.”
“Then get on with it.”
Kirike knelt down and opened up his bag. Reverently he unpacked the bones, and began to lay them in the shallow cist.
Ana, gripping Dolphin’s arm, turned her sightless face to the northern sea. “When I was a little girl I rarely thought of the future. What child does? Even when I was grown it seemed to me the past must have been the same as the present, and the future could be no different. Well, the Great Sea washed that away, I can tell you. And now I know there will be a future, for I have created it—I and Novu and Jurgi and all the rest—it is divided from the past as cleanly as this wall divides land from sea.
“But what next? That I cannot see. Knuckle’s boys have dreams of their own—do you remember Knuckle? Good man, another hothead, but not all his boys are entirely foolish. The snailheads abandoned their land in the south because of the encroachment of the sea. Well, if dykes can be built here, why not there? And maybe it ought to be done if we don’t want the sea washing up from the south to overwhelm us, just when we’ve excluded it from the north. But that’s a task for another generation, not for mine, and I won’t see it done. I think I’ve stirred them up to do it, however.
“And then there’s whatever’s going on in the east.” She glanced that way, thoughtful. “I mean the very far east, beyond the Continent where the traders walk, a world away. It’s different where Novu was born, in Jericho, where people live in nests of stone, and don’t hunt as we do but live with the cattle they feed on. Just one of them came here with a head full of strangeness, and he changed everything, for Novu’s was the inspiration for building the dykes in the first place.
“What else are they up to over there? What happens when the next Novu comes here, and the next—or a whole herd of them? Well, let them come. I remember Novu said that at first he could barely see us at all, barely see Etxelur, so lightly had we touched the land. Even our houses were just heaps of seaweed to him. Let them try not to see us now . . .”
“Ana! Look at me!”
Ana turned her head toward the ocean. “That sounds like Arga. It can’t be Arga. Although she was always a good swimmer, and now she swims in the stone of the dyke . . .”
“Ana!”
Dolphin peered out to sea. The voice wasn’t Arga’s, but Zuba’s, Arga’s granddaughter. She was standing within the circle of the ocean dykes—standing on a dry surface, on a wall that curved and glistened, studded by shells and draped with seaweed.
As the water drained out through the gates in Ana’s dykes, for the first time since the day of the Great Sea, the circular arcs of the Door to the Mothers’ House were rising into the sunlit air.
89
For an age yet the chthonic convulsions would continue. Matters of geological chance would determine the future shape of land and sea: the release of stresses in the unburdened continental plates, the precise way the ice caps melted after their rough sculpting by the stray comet fragments. Small, random events, trivial on a planetary scale, yet with huge consequences for the humans who struggled to survive.
In Northland, as the seas rose, perhaps the flooding from north and south would continue, until the ocean broke through from north to south, separating Britain from Europe with a tongue of ocean.
Or perhaps humans could make a difference.
Time would tell.
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Afterword
In 1931 a fishing trawler called the Colinda, working forty kilometers off the eastern coast of England, dragged up a lump of peat. Inside, the skipper found an elegantly barbed spear point made from a deer antler. Entirely unexpected, it was a relic of a country now lost beneath the ocean.
In 8000 BC sea levels were much lower than today, as vast quantities of water were still locked up in the ice caps, and around the world ocean floors were exposed. Britain was not an island. The bed of the North Sea was a vast plain now known as “Doggerland,” a country larger than modern Britain whose northern coast ran directly from England to Denmark. The present Dogger Bank was a shallow upland (called the First Mother’s Ribs here), and to its south was a saltwater estuary the size of the Bristol Channel, now known as the Outer Silver Pit (and here called the Moon Sea). With twenty-four major lakes and wetlands and sixteen hundred kilometers of river courses, Doggerland was a rich, well-watered landscape that would have been very attractive to human hunters, more so than the surrounding higher land—and probably the center of north Europe’s culture at the time.
But as the last ice melted the sea levels rose, and the land itself, released from the ice’s weight, rose and fell in a complex geometry of rebound. Doggerland began to drown. The sea rise may have been punctuated by sudden events such as storm surges—or even by tsunamis, as depicted here. In c.6200 BC a massive undersea landslip occurred off the coast of Norway at Storegga (see Bondevik et al., Eos, vol. 64, pp. 289–300, 2003). My earlier tsunami originates in the same undersea area.
By c.6000 BC Britain was severed from continental Europe, by c.4000 BC the last islands were submerged, and that was the end of “Doggerland, a country that had been central to the cultural development of north-west Europe for perhaps twelve thousand years” (chapter five of Europe’s Lost World: The Rediscovery of Doggerland, V. Gaffney et al., Council for British Archaeology, 2009). The question asked in this series is: what if this northern heartland, on the brink of the Neolithic, had not been lost to the ocean?
Doggerland’s existence was suspected long before the Colinda’s chance find. Observations of submerged offshore forests—“Noah’s woods”—had been recorded since the twelfth century. Geologist Clement Reid, in his Submerged Forests (Cambridge, 1913), was the first to speculate that a drowned landscape might once have joined Britain to the continent. A key survey was published in 1998 by Professor Bryony Coles (Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, vol. 64, pp. 45–81), who coined the name “Doggerland.” This built on data about the North Sea gathered by geologists, environmentalists, marine engineers and others. (The Northland map in this volume is based on Coles’s projections.) A recent work led by the University of Birmingham utilized two decades’ worth of geological data, gathered by the oil and gas companies, to produce a detailed study of a large area south of the Dogger Bank (see Mapping Doggerland by V. Gaffney et al., Archaeopress, 2007).
The importance of Doggerland is now recognized. Doggerland is one of the three largest preserved drowned landscapes in the world, the others being Beringia, under the Bering Strait, and Sundaland, between Indochina and Java. Archaeologists are seeking World Heritage status for the site, and there are proposals for further work with undersea archaeology and sea-bottom coring. My portrayal of Doggerland here, inspired by the excitement of the “discovery” of this lost country, respectfully draws on the work done by these generations of researchers.
In the Netherlands people have been struggling to keep their land from the sea since before Roman times. Their earliest efforts, as in the novel, were to build artificial hills called terpen or werden in flood-affected areas, from about 500 BC. If anybody really did try to save Doggerland by building polders and dykes and drainage channels, the evidence is lost beneath the North Sea.
This book is set in Britain’s Mesolithic period, c.10,000 BC–4,000 BC. For an overview see Late Stone Age Hunters of the British Isles, C. Bark, Routledge, 1992. The Mesolithic roughly corresponds culturally to the “Archaic” period in the Americas; see Prehistory of the Americas, S. Fiedel, Cambridge, 1992. My Doggerland Mesolithic culture is an invention, but draws on evidence of comparable cultures around the world (see Mesolithic Studies at the Beginning of the 21st Century by N. Milner et al., Oxbow, 2005).
My depiction of permanent dwellings is derived in part from the archaeology of a “house” in Howick, Northumberland, dating back to c.8000 BC (see Ancient Northumberland by C. Waddington et al., English Heritage, 2004). There is no evidence I know of regarding clothing worn in the Mesolithic. However, there is evidence of sophisticated clothing woven from vegetable fibers from much earlier epochs, even the depths of the Ice Ages (see for example, www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2000/02/000203074853.htm). Hunting people observed in the modern age have shown themselves capable of remarkable feats of medicine, including cesarean sections, which may be anesthetized with opium derivatives (see for example, chapters eight and nine of Lost Civilizations of the Stone Age by R. Rudgley, Century, 1998).
Some speculate that of languages spoken in modern Europe only Basque remains of a very ancient language super-family known as Dene-Sino-Caucasian, which was later mostly supplanted by Neolithic language groups including Uralic-Yukaghir, which includes Finnish, and the Indo-European which includes the Celtic, Germanic and Italic languages (see L. Trask, The History of Basque, Routledge, 1977). This is controversial, however. And even the language group from which Basque derived must surely have been only one of many hundreds scattered across a sparsely populated Mesolithic Europe. I have respectfully borrowed or adapted some Basque words for names and place names. My name for Ana’s home, “Etxelur,” is inspired by the Basque words lur, land, etxe, home. My names for Britain, “Albia,” and the British, “Pretani,” derive from records made in antiquity that appear to be based on the journey of Pytheas in the fourth century BC (see The Extraordinary Voyage of Pytheas the Greek, B. Cunliffe, Allen Lane, 2001).
My mythology of Northland is an invention, though it is assembled in part from fragments of Norse, Celtic and other lore.
“Rock art” based on “cup-and-ring” circular forms is common in northern Britain and Ireland (see British Prehistoric Rock Art by S. Beckensall, Tempus, 1999). It is unusual in that, unlike art found in other parts of the world, it is almost all abstract. The dominant motif is a set of concentric circles with a radial “tail,” but many variants are found. The rock art is difficult to date (there is no organic component to allow carbon dating). It is generally assumed to be Neolithic or perhaps Bronze Age, but it has been speculated that the art has Mesolithic origins.
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