The Lyre Dancers

by Mandy Haggith

  ‘Hello,’ Mother says. The otter stares at her, and then at me, and I swear it has murder in its eyes. It would eat us if it could.

  ‘Are you wondering what we would taste like?’ I say to it inside my head. This seems to decide the matter of our inedibility and it turns and scampers off, flowing across the steep crag as if the gaps and holes among the boulders did not exist. I marvel at how footsure and in possession of this place it is.

  We walk on to a place where Mother says the dragon lives in a sea cave under the cliff, but I only see the waves melting over the rocks. ‘It is sleeping,’ she says. ‘We’ll have to come again another day.’

  I stand looking out to sea. It is grey and flat. The moon has set into a bank of cloud that is drawing across the sky like a blanket slowly pulled up over a bed. The sun lights everything from the east, but I can see it will soon be engulfed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mother asks.

  I cannot tell her how it feels to be in her world, where everything is new to me but familiar to her, and delightful or disappointing depending on how it has changed since her childhood; where everything is meaningful to her but meaningless to me; how alone I seem here, how empty my life is, how everything I have and do is shaped by her and how I drag along behind. I am just a net hauled in her wake, heavy with fish that she wants to catch, encircled by seabirds she has attracted. I want to empty myself and be free. I want to be alone. I want to be myself. I want to be someone else than who I am here. I am stifled by breathing the air she has already breathed. I think of Rona, who has escaped, and though I’m glad to be free of her irritating presence, I’m discovering in her absence that she used to shield me from Mother.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘I suppose it’s all new and strange.’

  But that is not it. It is not new or strange at all. It is imprinted all over with her footprints and handprints. It is all old and all known. It is second hand. It is hers.

  I am quiet and kneel down to peer at the flowers. At least they are fresh. She looks searchingly at me then shakes her head a little, turns, and walks on.

  RIAN

  CLACHTOLL

  When Rian and Soyea reached the mouth of the salmon stream, Rian paused and thought about Manigan. For years now, he went off out to sea like a migratory fish and, as reliable as a trout, he always returned. Over and over he had done this now, sailing north to hunt, then back south to rejoin her. They had spent so many winters together, there could be no doubt he would come back safely, and yet there was always a sliver of worry that she couldn’t shake off.

  She showed her daughter where to slither down the slippery crag to the river, as if it had been only yesterday when she had been here last. They splashed across the easy shallows down by the shore, then cut inland up the far side of the busy torrent and along a track through woodland. There were birds singing in the treetops at first, but as the cloud covered the sun they fell quiet and the brightness of the morning dulled.

  Beyond the woods was grassy land, cultivation and a few smoking huts. Rian was tense, holding herself upright as she walked. They were getting close. Did she really have the courage to go back to that place? Soyea was looking around, wide-eyed, with her customary curiosity. Rian took a deep breath. She was no longer the foster child who was sold by Drost. She was a mother now. Her daughter was becoming a woman she was proud of.

  As they emerged from the woods, Rian waited for Soyea to look left, and enjoyed the look of wonder on her face as she saw, for the first time, the extraordinary cleft promontory jutting out into the sea.

  ‘Clachtoll,’ she said. ‘Rock hole. It gives its name to the whole place.’ She pointed ahead to the tall stone tower. ‘Look.’

  Soyea blinked. ‘Is that the house?’

  Rian nodded.

  ‘You never told me it was a broch.’

  She shrugged. ‘It was just the new house when I was growing up. I didn’t know it was special then. I presumed they were everywhere.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Soyea said.

  Rian was too, and tired. It was further than she remembered and it had been hard going on the slippery coastal path, but she said nothing. She felt sick with dread at the sight of the big stone building, yet maybe Danuta was still there. She let that longing tug her onward. They passed a group of huts and mounded strips of field surrounded by wattle fences. Cattle ranged about, black and hairy, with huge horns and a wild look in their eyes.

  Soyea made to coax one to let her stroke it but Rian knew that would be a long, long game, and urged her to press on. She pointed out the sandy beach on their left. Soyea said she didn’t think it was as pretty as Achmelvich. Rian didn’t care. She tried to focus on the flowers. The air rang with the sound of gulls and swallows zipped about among the cattle, just as they had always done, so why did she have such a feeling of dread?

  They passed a girl, a bit younger than Soyea, with a prod in her hand. She was trying to persuade a cow to stop grazing, without much success, and she smiled a warm, shy smile, with no trace of recognition. Of course not. Yet Rian knew exactly who she must be. She was the image of Duileag as she had been back when they were both girls. She stopped, and wondered whether to say something, but then walked on. The girl and Soyea shared a glance and smiled again. Rian was pleased. Perhaps there could be new friendships. Perhaps old acquaintances could be rekindled.

  They made their way onto the peninsula, the broch becoming more and more imposing as they approached. Rian gestured towards the sheltered pool beyond it, where several boats were moored, but she couldn’t find any words. Her mouth was dry. It was eerie that there were no people milling about or even animals, although there were signs that pigs had been churning the ground. Sure enough, as they got even closer a large boar came grunting towards them. A sow with piglets joined the boar and they crowded around them wanting food, or as if questioning why they were there. It was a strange welcome party. Rian wished she had a stick. The sow was leaning in on them and squealing, smearing mud on their skirts. The boar was aggressive. Rian aimed a kick at the boar’s throat that kept the big pig marginally at bay while they made their way to the gate. It was a stout wattle affair, lashed firmly in place to ensure no one could intrude easily. The pigs were maddening, butting against them, hungry. Rian worked away at the knots in the rope until the gate opened, and with a few more kicks and a rapid dash and slam, they were inside and the pigs were not.

  Rian called out. ‘Anybody home?’

  Soyea struggled with the ropes until Rian returned to help her. Soyea had never got the hang of knots, and Rian didn’t understand why not. She had tried to teach her many times, but Soyea’s hands didn’t seem to be able to remember what to do.

  They were at the broch. The stonework was still stunning, the tower daunting close up. And it was surrounded by a maze of new walls: cells, bunkers, sheds. Smoke trailed out of a low stone building but there was remarkably little activity. Rian was trying not to give away her fear to Soyea. She needed to be brave in front of her daughter, but the brooding silence was alarming. Why was there no dog? Soyea kept close to her, frowning.

  Rian stopped by a new curving wall and glanced back towards the gate. She tried to moisten her mouth and speak as if this was normal. ‘This used to be my house,’ she said. ‘It’s changed a lot.’

  They continued circling through the labyrinthine stonework. ‘What is with all these walls?’ Rian said to herself.

  And then they reached the tower entrance. At least the fine wooden door, ajar, was still the same.

  Rian banged on it and called again. ‘Anybody home?’

  There was still no answer.

  DANUTA

  Rian pushed open the door into the narrow passage between the walls. The wicker inner door was hanging open off snapped hinges. It was dingy inside and smelt of cow dung and urine. A thin little cat rubbed around her ankles, miaowing. She leant down to stroke it, absently, and it tried to bite her hand as if it was unused to friendliness.
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br />   Rian could feel Soyea at her shoulder as she made her way through the stour. The mud floor underfoot and low, ramshackle wattle overhead made the room seem more like a byre than a house.

  ‘Come in,’ said an unfamiliar voice.

  Soyea clutched Rian’s wrist. Rian could feel her heart pounding. Her eyes were taking a while to adjust to the gloom, but she made out a skinny woman sitting in a chamber opposite the door, up a few steps, across the muddy floor. She shifted and the yellow pool of light from a tallow lamp lit her wan face. She had a leather garment across her knees and was mending a tear in it with a big, clumsy needle and thick thread.

  ‘It’s a lovely day out,’ Rian said. Who was this, and why would anyone be sitting indoors stitching by lamplight when they could be outside in the brightness?

  ‘I’m sure it is, and I’m stuck in here with the crone.’

  It was impossible to tell how old this woman was. Her face was lined. She wore a baggy tunic and tatty skirt and her hair was covered by a woollen scarf as dark and grimy as the rest of her clothes.

  ‘Is Danuta here?’ Rian asked.

  In answer, the woman gestured to a dark hole in the wall to their left. Rian’s shoulders lifted and her neck tightened. She glanced round to Soyea and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the woman.

  ‘They call me Donnag here.’ She didn’t lift her gaze from her stitching, as if it was not really her name, just a temporary inconvenience.

  ‘Are you Bael’s wife?’

  The woman looked at Rian, clearly wondering who she might be, and gave the tiniest of nods. Her face was etched with sadness and her eyes were dark, yellowed and sick-looking. Inside that bundle of clothes there was little of her. Whatever curiosity she may have, she didn’t express it as a question.

  Rian said, ‘I grew up here.’

  Donnag gave another, almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Is Danuta well?’ Rian was trying to sound like she was just making conversation, not as if she was asking a question of life or death.

  Donnag gave a tiny shake of her head and blinked. This minimal gesture conveyed clearly enough that there was serious illness in the building, and until now there was no help and nothing that could be done about it. Rian didn’t know how she could possibly deduce this from one look at her, but she did. Donnag’s gaze lowered to the leatherwork on her lap; it was clearly a difficult task, one of many difficult tasks that weighed her down. Rian ushered Soyea towards the room in the wall.

  She pulled aside the curtain across the doorway. It was dark inside. The smell of stale urine intensified. The air was dense with sickness.

  ‘Danuta?’ Rian’s voice was soft, like a child’s.

  There was only a whimper in response.

  A little light filtered into the chamber. Rian crouched beside the low bed, where Danuta’s face peered out from a bundle of fleece and blankets, shrunken and wizened, her eyes deep in their sockets, but still speedwell blue.

  Rian swallowed, then managed to speak. ‘You’re still alive. I’m so happy to see you.’ She wasn’t too late. Yet in her mind Danuta had always been as she had last seen her, eighteen years ago. She had seemed old even then, although hearty and strong, but now she was a vision of death.

  ‘Rian.’ The crone’s voice was little more than a whisper, but it had a note of joy in it that made tears come into Rian’s eyes. A bony hand scrabbled out from inside the covers to reach for her face. The old woman struggled to shift but Rian stilled her.

  ‘You don’t need to sit up.’ Rian took her hand with both of hers and lifted it to her cheek, then kissed it. She couldn’t stop the tears, didn’t want to.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ Danuta whispered, and then chuckled, and the smile on her face was such a beautiful crumpling that Rian felt she would burst with love for her. Then a cough caught the laugh and a terrible wheezing hack engulfed the old woman. Rian feared she would surely die.

  Eventually her coughing eased. ‘Rian.’ Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘I was afraid I would be too late.’ Rian reached for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  ‘They’ve not quite managed to finish me off yet. And who’s this with you?’

  Rian turned. Soyea was standing just inside the doorway, shock on her face.

  Rian supposed she had never seen anyone look so ill. She gestured to her to come close. ‘This is my daughter, Soyea. Come and meet Danuta, my foster mother, the only mother I ever knew.’

  Blinking, the girl stepped towards the bed.

  ‘Soyea.’ The crone’s eyes were eating her up. ‘You know what it is?’

  She nodded. ‘The island.’

  Danuta beamed first at Soyea, then at Rian: an ancient smile, yet somehow as fresh as one of the seashore flowers.

  ‘I had a twin brother, Cleat.’

  Rian watched Danuta digest this, her eyes shifting between the two of them. Rian knew Danuta could see that this was painful for her.

  ‘You must have many stories.’ Danuta clutched Rian’s hand and in that touch was all the optimism, the ability always to be positive even when everything was wrong, that had kept her alive all this time. And then the terrible coughing started again.

  Rian pushed Soyea ahead of her out of the chambered cell into the centre of the broch and swept her hand up over her forehead. She breathed deeply, then pulled her hair back into a bunch behind her neck, tugged a ribbon out of her pocket and tied it. The effect was stern, she knew, but she was ready to work.

  She turned to Soyea and looked her steadily in the eye, speaking in a murmur. ‘I didn’t expect her to be alive. I may need to stay here for a while. She needs care. Are you willing to stay and help?’

  Soyea gave one of her noncommittal shrugs, which Rian decided to treat as assent. It made no difference anyway. It was obvious that she had to be here. The place was a mess, as if no one had treated this hearth as their home for some time. Danuta needed to be looked after.

  ‘I may have to be rude to our hosts.’ She took a few strides to where the quiet figure sat mending, and raised her voice. ‘Donnag. Danuta needs a hot drink. May I light your fire?’

  ‘The embers died ages ago, Buia might have some.’

  ‘I can make it.’

  Donnag looked down blankly, as if she was asleep.

  ‘Would you mind if I build fire in the hearth? Is there someone else’s permission to ask?’

  Rian was trying to avoid a desecration but it was not clear Donnag appreciated the situation. Who had let the hearth fire die? Who cooked here normally? Rian didn’t wait for Donnag to answer. She was already on her knees, pulling her spark stone from her pouch, teasing fibres of cotton grass into a light fluff.

  Donnag put down the leatherwork. ‘I’ll go and get Buia.’ She stood like an old woman, shuffled to the entrance arch. Before she bent to pass through it, she turned.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Rian.’ She struck a spark. The cotton grass flared.

  ‘Rian.’ Donnag gave no sign that the name meant anything to her. She ducked through the passage out of the broch, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Can you find any firewood?’ Rian asked Soyea. ‘Try there.’ She gestured to the doorway.

  As Rian fed the flame, coaxing birch bark and twigs into burning, Soyea rummaged and soon found a stack of birch logs in one of the antechambers of the passageway. There was not much kindling but that was never much of a problem to Rian. The fire wanted to burn for Danuta, it was easy. She had water heating within a few minutes and sent Soyea to get more fresh water from a well outside. By the time she returned with the bladder filled, Rian was rummaging in the wicker bedding trunk.

  Muttering about the things she needed, she handed Soyea cloths and blankets to take into Danuta’s room. When the water boiled, she set some mint and meadowsweet from her pouch to infuse in a pot and refilled the kettle.

  Soyea seemed happy enough to help. She was a good girl and liked to be useful. They went in to s
ee Danuta, who was dozing. When she woke, Rian told her she had a brew for her cough. She let Soyea hold the cup to her lips and watched as her foster mother and her daughter encountered each other.

  Danuta sipped, then smiled that crumply smile. ‘Mother bless you, Soyea.’ She looked into the girl’s face. ‘You are a handsome young woman.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m ugly.’

  ‘Psht. How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘You’ll be a beauty in your twenties. You’re striking. And you’re modest and don’t think too much of yourself. That’s never a bad thing. Is your mother good to you?’

  Soyea nodded, frowning. Danuta winked at Rian.

  ‘You’re still as beautiful as ever, Rian.’

  This time it was Rian’s turn to say ‘Psht’.

  ‘Is this it for children?’

  ‘There’s Rona, a bit younger, and already handfasted. But nothing more after her, sadly.’

  ‘The father?’

  ‘Rona’s father is Manigan, the Walrus Mutterer.’ Saying his name, the words were sweet in her mouth.

  ‘So the rumour was true.’ Danuta smiled. ‘Is he good to you?’