The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  He said, patiently, “We lower the slab carefully to one side of the trench. Right—all rigged and ready. Freya, you take that end, I’ll do this. Three, two, one . . .”

  At first nothing seemed to shift as they pumped the handles back and forth, then, slowly, the slings tightened around the stone.

  Dan was breathing faster. “Keep going.”

  Freya followed his rhythm. Her biceps were burning and sweat stung her eyes as the stone began to move; she gave up trying not to pant.

  “You’re doing well—that’s it—brilliant!” Too close to the edge, Katherine leaned over the trench.

  Dan managed a grin. “Thanks, Coach. Careful, though. Watch your step.”

  Freya bit back a groan. “How far to go?”

  From a safer distance, Katherine peered down. “You’re about a third of the way.”

  “We can do it.” Even Dan was panting.

  “Yes.” Freya’s teeth were clenched.

  “Nearly there—nearly—you’ve done it!” Katherine stood back as the gray slab rose out of the ground and into the sunlight. And she remembered, finally, to breathe.

  The stone lay on the grass, the slings collapsed around it. Out of its resting place it seemed diminished, less formidable.

  “And now?” Dan eyed the compressed earth where the stone had lain.

  “Guess.” Freya handed him a shovel.

  Katherine held out a hand. “Me too. I like digging.”

  “Okay, I’ll do the buckets.” Freya braced Dan as he clambered into the trench.

  Katherine liked the easy way they had with one another now; both seemed so much happier—in themselves and with each other; she’d have to pick her time to tell them.

  Freya leaned down over the lip of the excavation. “So, what do you think?”

  There was a quiet moment when Dan stared into her eyes until he closed his own.

  Katherine watched silently. What was happening here?

  “I think . . .” He limped halfway along the trench and measured out one further pace. “Here.”

  “Like me to start?”

  “Back there, Katherine, a pace away from the center on your side.” Dan sank his spade.

  By the middle of the afternoon, Dan and Katherine were a meter below the former level of the slab. Freya had bucketed the soil away and sifted it—slow work for, so far, no result—but she wasn’t discouraged; she was in the zone. And if her arms ached, so did the backs of her thighs and the base of her spine—in fact, she was aching all over. Situation normal.

  “Freya.”

  She dropped the bucket and hobbled to the trench.

  “Listen.” Dan pushed the shovel blade down. Thack. A bit farther along, thack. He stared at her.

  Katherine said, “Same here.” She demonstrated.

  “Stone?”

  Dan nodded. “Hand me a bucket.”

  Freya dropped four empty buckets down. They were quickly filled, and an edge became visible—definitely a piece of stone.

  “Not as big as the slab or as thick, not remotely.” Dan wiped his sweating palms on his trousers.

  Katherine brushed loose soil away from her end. She peered closer. “Could this be a lid?” She tapped with a trowel handle.

  Freya slid down beside Dan. “Maybe it’s a box.” There was a buzzing at the back of her skull, insistent as an insect. She bent, touched what they’d found, and the buzz worked up to a cutting whine.

  “May I?” Freya picked up a long trowel.

  “Of course. It’s yours.”

  It cost Freya an effort to smile, but she picked along the underside of the rectangle with the point of the trowel. “You’re right, Katherine. This could be the lid on a cist.”

  “A cist?” Daniel frowned.

  “A stone cist, not a medical problem.” Freya eased the trowel deeper and wriggled the point around. “It’s a box made of pieces of stone.” She squeezed her eyes half-shut against the pain in her head.

  “You all right?” Dan was concerned.

  “A headache, that’s all—not much sleep last night.” Freya waved vaguely. “Just give me a minute.” She clambered out and sat on the grass, watching as the trench within a trench began to widen and Katherine revealed the form of the cist. They cleared three sides, leaving the fourth embedded in the wall of the trench. Katherine could bear the suspense no longer. “What now?”

  White pain pulsed behind Freya’s eyes. It was hard to speak. “Lift the lid.”

  Dan was worried. “You stay there, give yourself a break.”

  “No!” Freya winced. “Sorry, I want to do this, Dan.”

  He stepped away reluctantly, giving her room as she slid back into the trench. She took a steadying breath and nudged a crowbar under the covering stone. “I’ll try to lever. When I say go, slide your shovels into the gap. Ready?”

  Dan and Katherine nodded.

  Something hot stung behind her eyes, but with each breath Freya pushed the distraction farther away as she allowed her being, her mind, to sink into the task. Even if she’d had X-ray vision, her sight could not have been clearer now, her hand steadier, as the point of the steel bar found just the correct place—an irregularity where the lid met the wall of the box. As if she were playing an instrument, as if there were a rhythm to all of this, Freya’s hand and the steel became one device. She lifted her arm, and dropped it. Lifted again, and down. And . . . the point went in. Again. Farther; the stone began to move.

  “Go!” The shovels were in and under, and in unison they lifted as Freya’s crowbar slid into the opening. There was a void behind—no resistance—and the bar almost slid from her fingers. “No!”

  “We’ve got it.” Dan was straining to hold the lid. Katherine winced. “If it drops, you’ll trap your fingers.”

  But Freya wedged a rock in the gap. “It won’t. I promise you.” She spoke softly, for she’d seen what lay in the box. There you are.

  And the pain blinked out.

  The skeleton was huddled knees to chin with the hands and arms squashed against the chest. Poignantly, a few dark curls were attached to the skull still, and a scattering of blue beads lay beneath the collarbones.

  Freya picked a bead from the dust. “Faience. Valuable. Someone thought she was worth it.”

  Dan peered at the tiny object in her palm. “She, because of the beads?”

  Freya squatted down. “Not just that.” She pointed at the skull. “No brow ridges, like the other skeleton. And this is a young adult, too, though older I’d say. At least this girl wasn’t murdered.”

  Katherine stared at the collection of slender bones. This had once been a living, breathing person. “Could be just a large child—the skeleton’s small enough.”

  “But no milk teeth, and the wisdom teeth have erupted too.” Freya pointed to the jaw. “They descend any time from the late teens; the rest of the teeth are in good condition though—little wear and none missing—so not old.” She peered more closely at the skull. “The sutures are well closed, but they’re not obliterated—that happens as you age.”

  “The body must have been a very tight fit when it was buried, almost squashed in.” Dan frowned.

  “The fetal position; you see that from time to time . . .” Her voice trailed away as she bent to brush dust from the delicate skull. The skeleton was touching, huddled like a baby.

  “Returned to the womb of the earth.” Katherine spoke softly, a benediction for the unknown girl.

  “Is it a Christian grave?” Dan leaned forward.

  Freya shook her head. “No. Wrong orientation, and she was buried inside the standing stones. Not very likely for a Christian woman.”

  Katherine pointed; there were pottery shards among the bones. “A Pagan grave would explain this, then. A bowl with food for the final journey? A kind gesture.” Kindness was important to Katherine.

  “But she was buried under a stone slab,” Dan said. “That’s a lot of effort. They could have just covered the cist with earth and walke
d away.”

  Freya looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re right, Dan. That is odd.”

  Katherine glanced at the slab lying in the meadow. “But that stone is marked with a cross; it’s all very confusing.”

  “Another Pagan-Christian grave.” Freya shook her head. “This place. Rip up the rule books and start again.”

  “I’m starved.” Freya climbed out of the cist trench with Dan’s help. She was filthy; they all were.

  “So, I’ll cook then.” He grinned.

  “Again?” They eyed each other, smiling.

  “We’re putting this back?” Katherine bustled toward the pair carrying the folded tarpaulin.

  “Er, yes. Should be okay overnight; it seems fine—at least for the moment—but just for safety.” Freya glanced up. It was a perfect evening. Wisps of cloud caught by the declining sun shone pink and gold as the sky slowly changed from peacock blue to milky indigo, the strange half-light of high summer.

  She took the tarpaulin and shook it out. “We should be able to empty the grave tomorrow, though. That is, if you’d like to stay, Katherine.” She did not look at Dan.

  “That would be delightful, if you can lend me a T-shirt.” The twinkle faltered.

  Freya said, warmly, “I’m sure we’ll find you something.”

  The wander back toward Compline was slow and easy, voices rising and falling in the soft air.

  Freya scanned the east. “I haven’t seen the comet in a few nights.”

  Katherine said, lightly, “Been rather wild weather to see anything recently, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Mild as milk now.” Dan stared out over the calm strait. In the faltering light, a lone dinghy chugged past the Portsolly breakwater in the far distance. Someone returning late to Port. Good luck to them.

  He caught Freya’s glance; he knew where he’d rather be.

  “Freya?” Outside the bathroom door, Katherine could hear the water swirling down the plughole.

  “Sorry to have taken so long. There’s still plenty of hot water.” Freya pushed the door open. She was wrapped in a bathrobe, and her hair, freshly washed, was twisted into a towel. “Your turn.”

  “I wonder if we could have a chat.” Katherine could hear Dan making up the fire in the big room; he was whistling happily to himself.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Katherine tried to smile. “Not wrong. But there’s something I should have said before. I wasn’t sure, though, and now you said you’ve seen, well . . .” She did not have the words.

  “Come and sit by the stove.”

  Katherine nodded gratefully. “I’m sorry. It’s not like me to be so silly, but I’ve been troubled and not sure how to, that is, when to . . .”

  Freya unwound the towel and shook her hair free. “Not silly at all. Findnar does this—messes with your head.”

  “That’s why I was trying to tell you what happened,” Katherine said. Then she shut her mouth abruptly, as if frightened.

  “We have all night.” Freya spoke gently.

  In the background, behind Katherine, Dan stood silently in the doorway.

  “I have never talked of this. Not to anyone.” Katherine stared at her hands as they twisted in her lap. She sighed. “The last time your father and I spoke to one another was . . . unhappy—and then he died.”

  Freya reached forward and clasped Katherine’s hands in her own. “Please, if this distresses you . . .”

  “It does, but it is a relief to speak of it.” Katherine sniffed.

  Freya rummaged in a pocket. “Here.” She produced a tissue. “It’s clean, I promise.” She smiled encouragingly.

  “You are very kind, Freya. He was kind too.” Katherine blew her nose loudly. “But you spoke of seeing ‘her.’ Was this a pretty girl with dark hair—curly dark hair?”

  “Yes.” Freya’s eyes met Dan’s over the top of Katherine’s head.

  “Your father saw her too. Here on the island. And he said it was the dead come back to life, seeking to tell him something. He seemed completely certain. I have never believed in ghosts, and I told him I thought he might be ill, or suffering delusions from living alone in this place. He would not listen to me, and we quarreled after I asked him to see a doctor. He said I was the deluded one, and that if I would just open my mind to other possibilities . . . What possibilities—those that dwell at the bottom of the whisky? That is what I said.” A sad little laugh. “We so rarely quarreled, and this was worse for being Christmas—the very day he gave me the crucifix. Christmas affected him, I knew that, though I did my best to help him be cheerful. He missed you, Freya. I would say, each Christmas Eve, Pick up the phone, call her—but he never did. He thought he had no right to disturb your life after all these years. Perhaps I was glad—because I was jealous. I thought he loved you more than me.” Katherine tried to smile at Freya, a brave failure. “He was the only family I had and I never saw him again and then, today, you said . . .”

  “That I had seen her.” Freya expelled a painful breath. Dan limped forward and sat beside Katherine at the table. “I see her, too, and the others, one man in particular.”

  Katherine’s voice cracked. “Others? But I do not see her, or them, whoever they are. Am I the only one without eyes. Why?” She was crying, her chest heaving with the effort to contain the sound. “If we had not quarreled, Michael might have stayed with me; he might not have come here that night. He might still be alive, sitting in this kitchen. Why did I not believe him?”

  Dan met Freya’s glance. And I might have died, not Michael Dane.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE BELL was calling. Prime, the second service of the day, if day this blank dark could be called.

  Signy rolled over and slipped from the skins. Fogged with sleep and habit, she knelt beside the palliasse. The air shocked her, and she remembered there was no need to pray. Shivering, she pulled a skin from the bed.

  “Signy?” Gunnhilde was in the byre below.

  The girl peered down. “What do you want?” She was wary.

  “There is danger.” An imploring whisper.

  “Why?” Something. Coming closer.

  Gunnhilde twisted her hands together. “I had to confess. I tried to avoid it.” She swallowed. “I said I had seen you near the stones and that I was worried for you—which the Lord knows is true. Brother Anselm said he must tell the Abbot and”—she took a quivering breath—“even though I know it is wrong, I have come to warn you.” She crossed herself.

  Signy climbed down from the loft. “Do you still think I am possessed, Mother?”

  Gunnhilde touched Signy’s cheek. Tears dripped down the old woman’s face. “Promise you will not go to the stones today. They . . .” She stopped, a hand to her mouth.

  “They?”

  “Our brothers will cast them down.”

  Signy said, cynically, “They tried once before.”

  Gunnhilde drew closer. “But an exorcism will be held this morning.” She faltered. “Then they will come for you.” She hit her chest with a clenched fist. “This is my fault, my grievous fault.”

  Signy’s glance strayed to a corner of the byre. Leaning against a wall was a large bowl made from hide stretched over a wicker frame; Gunnhilde had not seen it.

  The bell stopped. Signy kissed the old woman. “You will be late. Remember me, Mother, in your prayers.” She hurried Gunnhilde through the byre.

  “Go with God, dearest child.” The old nun so yearned to say more; she always did, she always had. She kissed Signy’s forehead and hobbled away.

  Signy ran to the coracle. It was not especially heavy, but it was cumbersome. Still, she would manage. No choice now.

  Cuillin dropped to his knees, cross held high. He stared fearfully at the Pagan temple as, behind him, Findnar’s monks also knelt in orderly rows. With eyes as wide as his, they moved their lips without sound as they told the rosary to ward off evil emanations from the stones.

  Was it strange to be locked in battle with the Fallen On
e on such a lovely day? The air was warm, and there was no sound but the twitch of insects. Even the sun, God’s comfort to the world, seemed to conspire with Satan, for it picked jewels in the surface of the granite monoliths, lending them beauty.

  The Abbot signed a sweeping cross in the air. He would drive away this unnatural, glittering enchantment, and Satan would not beguile him, for he was about God’s business.

  “Together, Brothers, we shall fight the Prince of Darkness. Rise. Join me!” The monk swept his arms into the air. “That stone”—he pointed, his forefinger a weapon—“their so-called altar; it shall be dragged down and consecrated to Christ in the name of St. Peter, the rock of our Church.” He thrust his cross toward the monoliths. “And with God’s help and strength, we shall roll the rest into the sea.”

  Perhaps some of the brothers stared toward the distant cliffs. It was a long way, a very long way.

  Cuillin’s voice rose sharply. “Evil has returned to the world, Brothers. Last night after Compline, I saw the Wanderer in the sky—a sign of the end-times—and we must act. Salvation, or damnation, is at stake.”

  Among the monks, Anselm blanched. The wandering star was a most terrible portent, for in the Scriptorium they had only just finished illuminating the great Book of Revelation, the chronicle of what would happen at the end of days. The timing was fearful.

  Solwaer woke with a start as something nudged his ribs. Head reeling, he saw what he was intended to see, someone, not something, and felt the boot again in his side.

  He sat up quickly. Too fast, the room swayed and tipped. “Stop that.”

  Portsol’s Demon grinned. “Time you were up, old man. Time to plan.” Bear reached down.

  Hand clasped hand, and Solwaer lunged to his feet as Bear yelled for the chamber slave. Pained, the Lord of Portsol closed his eyes; none of this was good.

  A girl hurried in. She huddled at Solwaer’s feet. The previous slave was barely alive from the beating he’d given her last night when he woke and wanted water; she’d not brought it quickly enough; her fate was the talk of the village.