A Handful of Ash

by Marsali Taylor

  ‘That all went fine,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I didna have your job.’

  ‘It was hard!’ I agreed. ‘I ended up just trying to find someone who hadn’t got a prize yet. They were all that keen.’

  ‘You did well,’ she said.

  ‘So did the organisers,’ I replied. ‘The decorations were great, and the food was magnificent.’ I indicated my ice-cream tub. ‘We’ll be eating this all the way back to Scalloway.’

  ‘Oh, are you sailing back tonight?’

  ‘It’ll be a bonny night,’ I predicted. I hesitated then launched in. ‘I’d no’ have thought Lawrence would have want to be involved in this kind o’ thing.’

  ‘I didn’t want to be either,’ she said, with feeling. ‘I’m had enough o’ witches. But Janette’s man’s at sea, so he felt we should come along instead.’

  ‘He got into the spirit of it.’ I watched her face in the mirror. ‘That was a good costume.’

  ‘The grey werewolf thing?’ Her face didn’t alter. ‘Oh, that’s Nate’s. I knew Lawrence’s squad hadn’t done anything in the witchy line.’ Suddenly I remembered meeting her outside the shop. She’d had a bag with a grey fur fabric suit in it. So who’d had the suit the night that Annette had died, Lawrence or Nate? It had been the day after Annette’s death that I’d seen her.

  ‘It looked good, anyway.’ I zipped my black jacket up. ‘Thanks for asking us, it’s been a fine night.’

  ‘Thanks to you for coming.’

  I came out again, feeling more like myself, and found Gavin back in his green kilt and tweed jacket. ‘The werewolf suit was Nate’s,’ I breathed at him as soon as we were safely clear.

  ‘I thought it might be. Ratter wouldn’t be one for dressing up in witchy clothes.’

  ‘And I think Nate had it on the night Annette died. I saw Rachel the next day, with the suit in a carrier bag.’

  The rain had stopped while we were in the party, and now the night was clear, with the moon turning the water to shining pathway between the black hills. A small, dark lump by the marina gateway expanded as we approached, and gave Cat’s almost silent mew. I picked him up and stroked his cold fur. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but we brought cake back.’

  I’d calculated the times beforehand: the flow at Papa would turn to westwards just before one o’ clock, so we needed to leave here no later than ten. We had a cup of tea together in the flickering lamplight, and I allowed Cat a crumb of soft sponge cake with buttercream icing, then we put on our oilskins and went up to cast off. The westerly wind had not yet backed to the northerly that was forecast. We hoisted sail as soon as we’d passed the lifeboat pier, and I took the helm for the brisk reach to the Rona, then we tightened the sails to beat between Muckle Roe and Vementry.

  The silence of sailing was good after the noise of the party, the soft curl of the waves around us, and the crash as they fell on the shore to each side, and the creaking of Khalida’s rig. A gold rectangle marked Dad’s house on Muckle Roe. I should have phoned to tell Maman I was in Aith. It was a Freudian slip, I suspected; I was nervous about her and Gavin meeting. Above us, the stars blazed, with the Milky Way a river of stars whose brightness even the lambent disc of moon couldn’t dim, and the occasional meteor from Leo falling in a white rush. I gave Gavin the helm as we came under the Vementry guns, and went below to make hot chocolate, working by touch in the dim light. Then, as we came clear of the Rona and out into the Atlantic, the north sky lightened with a green phospherescence, dripping down from a curve, as though someone had drawn an arch in the sky with a watery paint brush. The distant singing noise in the air was eldritch enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck.

  Gavin’s head was tilted towards the light. The green reflected faintly on his nose and cheekbones. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘The mirrie dancers? The aurora, yes.’ I pointed above us. ‘There’s more, see, that misty white patch above us.’

  ‘That’s cloud, surely?’

  I shook my head. ‘Wait, and it’ll clear, and reappear somewhere else. And do you hear them singing?’

  We watched together, sitting companionably side by side on the up-tilted bench, faces upturned, as the white patch broadened to a zebra river running across the whole sky, shimmering and fading, then disappeared altogether and reappeared as a white light like distant car headlights, or wartime searchlights. It lasted a good half hour, then was gone as suddenly as it came.

  I’d never felt like this before. It was the gentleness of the silence, feeling Gavin breathing beside me, his knee, his shoulder, his hand so close to mine that an inch of movement would have had us touching. My breath thudded in my breast to have him such an easy part of my world. He didn’t exclaim, or point, or do anything that would have broken the night. We just watched, drank it in together, eyes cast up to the heavens. It was as though we were kneeling together at Mass – and it was like a Mass, with the glory of God’s handiwork spread above us. When the light was quenched at last, we both gave a long sigh, as if we’d been holding our breaths, and neither of us spoke. I rose to put the mugs below and check the time, then tacked in a rattle of sheets to set us on our compass course to negotiate Papa Sound: 230 degrees true to the centre of the Holm of Melby, 295 degrees across to the middle of the bay, then 240 degrees to the sea. Subtract six to allow for the difference between true north and magnetic. I reached in for the handheld compass and handed it to Gavin. ‘Have you used one of these? You just hold it to eye level. When we get to this island, I need a back-bearing of 120 degrees, looking straight over the stern.’

  He nodded, and I fixed my eye on the circular cockpit compass as we turned. 240 – 250 – 290.’ I held her steady. ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘120 – 125 – 115 –’

  ‘Near enough.’ We sailed on for ten minutes across the channel, then I swung her nose over and hauled the sheets tight. The compass swung to 245 degrees. ‘This is the important one. I need to keep on a backbearing of 55 degrees on Forwick Holm, that lump of rock there.’

  ‘The Independent Crown Dependency of Forwick,’ Gavin surprised me by saying. ‘We heard all about him in Inverness. Driving without tax and insurance on the grounds that Shetland had never officially been ceded to Scotland, therefore the UK rules didn’t apply because he was driving a consular vehicle.’

  ‘Our Sheriff sorted him,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what century he thought he was living in. Nobody’s independent now. How’s my bearing?’

  ‘55.’

  I let the sails out a touch. ‘We’re avoiding the Huxter Baas, off that headland, and a couple of rocks off this one.’

  ‘What would you do if you were on your own?’

  I stood up, put one leg each side of the tiller, and my hand in compass-viewing position. ‘Steer with my knees. And there’s the simple ready-reckoner.’ I tilted my chin at the white star of Muckle Roe light, five miles behind us. ‘We can still see it.’

  He laughed, and looked again. ‘Spot on.’

  Once we were clear of the point Gavin went below, and I heard the chink of metal as he put the kettle on. I held Khalida steady on her course until we were half a mile off the dark crouch of land, then turned her nose south once more. The wind was back on the beam. I took the hot chocolate and pizza Gavin offered, gave him the helm, reached a fleece blanket up from below, and curled into it and dozed for the next hour. He woke me at two, and I took over while he went below, without fuss, without comment, and stretched out on the settee, his jacket over him. The moon cast silvery lights and velvet shadows on his lashes and cheekbones.

  I left him for two hours; I was used to catnapping, and knew my boat and my waters. We just had to keep pointing south for the next four hours. Khalida skimmed on, her sails set so that I needed only to balance my hand on the helm. The stars turned on their great wheel, and the moon followed her circle from just north of east to just north of west. When I went down to put the kettle on again he woke by himself, grey eyes suddenly wide open in the
moonlight, then he swung his legs down and pulled his jacket on. I nodded at the log book, open on the table. ‘Our course is 130 degrees, straight south-east. Just keep her steady as she goes, this distance off land. You’ll see the Vaila light in half an hour, flashing every 8 seconds – red first, then white. That means we’re there.’ I put a cold finger on the chart. ‘Then look out for the red sector of Fugla Ness, there, and aim for it. If the wind falls away completely, stick the engine on. There’s plenty of fuel in the tank.’ I yawned. ‘Don’t hesitate to wake me.’

  He nodded, and I peeled off my oilskins and boots and slid into my berth. The water rattled at the hull as Khalida surged forwards. I was at sea again … I slept.

  I woke at ten to six, in a grey dawn light, and wriggled forwards to look out. A headland that looked like Skelda Ness was abeam, and the scattering of islands that guarded Scalloway lay ahead of us. Our wake was still arrow straight on the water behind us, but I could feel our speed had fallen to less than four knots. We were making good enough time; there was no need yet to tear the early morning silence apart with engine noise.

  I used the heads, then made us a cup of tea each. Gavin smiled as I put the two mugs through the hatch. ‘Good morning.’

  He sounded as alert as if he’d had a full night’s sleep, but not, praise be, offensively cheery. I took the helm and narrowed my eyes into the greyness ahead. The moon had set, leaving only a faint gleam on the western horizon, and the sun was a pale streak of light along the top of the eastern hills, dimmed by the orange glow of the Scalloway streetlights. I’d put a waypoint in just before the channel through the islands, and I checked our heading to it: spot on. I nodded to Gavin, approving. ‘Good course.’

  ‘I have a GPS like yours on our wee boat. It’s easy to use.’

  He’d told me about their boat, a fibreglass dinghy with a small cuddy, which they used for visiting up and down the loch, and for transporting sheep from one part of the loch to the other. Dead stags were moved by pony.

  We threaded our way between the islands, and ghosted into Scalloway harbour. It was light now. On the hill above us, the rain had darkened the heather flowers to auburn, lightened by a pink haze of wiry marsh-grass stems. The peat had taken up as much water as it could. The cut banks were black, and the rain lay in a sheen across the flat surfaces, the greff where years of peats had been cut out, the moor grass between burns.

  In front of us, the water was mirror still, the tyres on Blacksness Pier doubling themselves, the image castle stretching downwards against its green hill. On the real hill behind, a hazy cloud rested on the hilltop as if it had got tired of sculling itself along in the sky. I switched the engine on and furled the jib. We putted forwards, a widening ripple vee behind us, while I took down the sails, then I added speed to go around the corner of the breakwater and into the shelter of the marina.

  ‘Wait!’ Gavin said suddenly. He lifted his binoculars. I throttled back the engine and let us drift.

  He was looking at Burn Beach, the little corner of beach below the street of coloured houses. The tide was washing two feet up the wall below the car park, and there was a dark mass floating in the water ten metres from the shore. Two herring gulls were circling it, taking off from the sea to flap above it, landing for a moment, then taking off to curve round it again.

  I put the engine in gear and putted slowly towards it, keeping an eye on the echo-sounder. In this high tide we should have plenty of water, but we’d have longer to wait to be floated off, should we run aground. Four metres – three point five – three – ‘I can’t go much closer,’ I said.

  ‘That’s close enough.’ His voice was grim. He fished his mobile from his jacket pocket and dialled. ‘Macrae here. Can you organise the team to get a boat on the water here in Scalloway, as quickly as possible. There’s what looks like a body in the harbour.’

  Sunday 28th October

  Low Water Scalloway 01:46 GMT 0.6m

  High Water 08:02 1.6 m

  Low Water 13:59 0.6m

  High Water 20:14 1.7m

  Moon waxing gibbous

  Moonset 05:47, 290 degrees

  Sunrise 07:20

  Moonrise 15:32, 67 degrees

  Sunset 16:17

  gruli, grulik (n) : a masked person, a person in disguise, especially at Hallowe’en

  Chapter Thirteen

  We couldn’t see who it was. We stood guard for what felt like an hour, waiting five metres away from the dark form that just broke the glass-still water. It was only when the ebbing tide began to move it seawards that we were able to approach.

  ‘We won’t try to haul it on board,’ Gavin said. ‘I don’t want to destroy evidence. My team will be here soon enough.’ He unclipped the boathook from the cabin roof. I manoeuvred alongside, and Gavin leaned over, hook end of the pole reaching towards the water. He gave a surprised ‘Oh!’ and reached again, manoeuvering the hook. His arms tensed as they took the weight. He looked back at me and nodded. ‘I’ve got him.’

  I reversed us back into deeper water, switched Khalida’s engine off, and came to look.

  I’d expected a starfish shape of dark arms and legs, but only the back confronted us, clad in a black hoodie, with long hair fanning out from the downwards-bowed head. The arms were drawn forward in some way that we couldn’t see. Gavin had hooked the boathook round a serviceable leather belt, the sort that would have a large bronzed buckle on the front. The trousers were dark too, and the legs held together, slanting below the water to a blue rope around the ankles, and pulled down by heavy black boots. My heart felt cold.

  ‘There’s a stone below the Smiddy there.’ I tilted my head at it. ‘They used to leave the witches there at low tide. They’d bind them hand and foot, and wait. If they floated, it was the Devil supporting them, and then they were tried and burnt. If they drowned, it was a sign that they were innocent.’

  Gavin nodded.

  The dark hair swirled in the last wash from Khalida’s propellor, the head turned slightly, and with the movement I knew him. ‘It’s Nate,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Gavin nodded again. ‘It looks like it could be.’ He turned his head to give me a sharp glance. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ It was a lie, of course, but I had myself under control now. I didn’t want to think, couldn’t help but think, of Nate being bound like this and put to the witches’ test. The water licked Khalida’s hull in the silence, and the body swam on its hook beside her, in the middle of a flicking of little fish. The waves curled against the froth-bleached stone of the Smiddy wall.

  The police came at last, one of Shetland’s chevroned cars turning into the Blackness pier, and the other heading along the Port Arthur road. Presently there was a wreath of blue smoke from the marina. One of the aluminium salmon boats roared towards us. Gavin raised a hand, and it came alongside. Sergeant Peterson was aboard, and a couple of uniformed officers. I took the strain on the boathook, and Gavin climbed aboard the smaller boat, and took charge.

  I watched in silence as they lifted Nate from the water and laid him on a polythene shroud. His arms had been bound at the wrists, and there was a gag in his mouth, what looked like a man’s handkerchief tied at the back under the dark hood. His eyes were open, peat dark and staring in the white face. The little fish had begun to nibble at his nose and cheeks, scarring the skin as if it had been rubbed by sandpaper. I hoped the undertaker would be able to cover it, for the mother who didn’t keep well, for his father, the minister. I didn’t suppose that even the religious convictions of a minister would make losing your son any easier. The words from Genesis rang in my head: You did not deny me your son, your only son. Abraham sacrificing Isaac. Suddenly I was bone weary.

  The salmon boat raced ahead of me to the marina. A white van was waiting in front of the boating club. I watched them trundle Nate to it. The van had headed up the hill towards Lerwick by the time I curved Khalida into her berth. It was very still, with no thrumming in the rigging, nor ripples knocking
against my head. I wanted to lie down and sleep, sleep. I could have an hour before I needed to leave for Mass. I kicked off my boots, hauled off my outer layers, and collapsed into my berth.

  When I woke, my watch said only half past eight, although it was bright daylight outside, and I had a moment of confusion before I remembered the changed hour. This time yesterday had been half past nine. Now we were into the sun’s own time, what the old sailors still called Greenwich Mean Time. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed and re-plaited my hair, fed Cat, and was just about to set out when my phone rang. It was Maman.

  ‘Cassandre?’

  ‘Salut, Maman.’

  She was offering me a lift to Mass, and lunch afterwards. It meant I’d need to leave Cat in the car during Mass, but I accepted, with the proviso that we’d go as late as possible to shorten his ordeal. It didn’t worry Maman, who was well-steeped in the Catholic tradition of drifting into Mass as the priest finished the introduction. I kept an eye on the clock, and Cat and I were waiting, ready, for Dad’s black Range Rover slide in beside the boating club. I lifted Cat’s basket in, and clambered after him.

  Maman was in between playing the Rameau equivalent of a fairy godmother in a son-et-lumiere production at some Loire château (late September) and the vengeful daughter of a Persian king in a indoor production at an equally magnificent château in the Auvergne (mid December). This meant that she was temporarily normal, instead of taking on the character she was about to sing, so that every small household accident became Greek drama. As normal, that is, as it was possible for her to be; the stage was her habitat, as the sea was mine, and even for Mass in our small church in Lerwick, she was dressed as if the press were lurking at the door: a cream hat with black felt flowers over one temple, a sweeping cream wool coat over a slim black skirt, seamed stockings above heeled black shoes. Her dark hair was parted in the middle, curved to a smooth bun at the nape of her neck, her powdered cheek was flawlessly smooth, her brown eyes darkened and lengthened by a broad line of eyeliner, Callas-style. This last month, she’d changed from burnt scarlet lipstick to frosted pink: ‘It is kinder, at my age. And when are you going to start making the most of yourself?’