Ghosts of the Vikings

by Marsali Taylor

  He stomped on upwards. Cat abandoned his investigation of a crack between stones and bounded ahead of us. I paused at the top to admire the view: the two golden beaches, with the rock-topped green of Vinstrick Ness between them, and Khalida riding in the centre of the smooth water. Bluemull Sound was racing now the tide had turned; the Vere and the submerged rocks beside it were breaking white. To the north, I could see over the broch headland to a clear sweep of sea. That long-dead Viking had chosen his spot well: a safe anchorage for his boats; a lookout point; running water; green pastures.

  The upper house was larger. Magnie led me along a flagged passage between two square rooms. ‘Annexes,’ he said, indicating them, ‘and the main house was divided into three. This wall was drystane dyke, and the annexes were stone an aa, so it woulda looked fairly impressive coming up from the beach.’ He gestured at the upper end of the house. ‘That was most awful interesting. We found aa kind o’ things there. They’d had a turf roof, and stored stuff up in the rafters, just like a modern crofthouse.’

  Modern was exaggerating slightly, but I knew what he meant: the rafters of every traditional Shetland byre supported a myriad of washed-up planks, old oars, deflated buoys and other useful gear which the women of the house periodically suggested could go to the bonfire. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Broken pots, big ones, and loom weights, and line sinkers, from their fishing. Lass, it was that strange to hold one o’ them in me hand, and imagine some ancestor o’ me own carving it, and threading his line through the hole, just as I’m done many a time, an’ andooing oot in his boat to catch a piltick or a mackerel for his tea, same as I’d do now. Then the big excitement – see, there’s a picture o’ it on the board.’ He led me up to the end of the house. ‘Here he is.’

  The picture showed a roughly carved figure, with a wide mouth, a pudgy nose and knife-point holes for eyes and ears. There was a suggestion of hands clasped across the front. He looked to be about the size of a corn cob.

  ‘A figurine, they called him,’ Magnie said, ‘and there was talk o’ the god Thor, because it might have been a line-sinker it was carved from, or maybe Christian significance, because there was the kirk nearby, but when I got to hold it in my hand, I could see that ancestor wi’ a peerie lass at his knee, his grandbairn maybe, carving her a doll to wrap up in an auld piece o’ cloth.’ He was silent for a moment, then he lifted his head and nodded at a car nosing its way along the road. ‘Now, lass, that’ll be Peter coming to pick me up. We’ll leave you in charge o’ these parks.’

  The car turned out to be an ancient Volvo in two shades of blue. Magnie’s pal looked like a whaling crony; he had a lean, tanned face, a bristle of white whisker, and spoke like a captain.

  ‘Peter,’ he said, and shook my hand. ‘Jump in, lass, and I’ll run you back to your boat.’

  I took a firm hold of Cat’s harness, and we squeezed together into the back seat. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How’s the patrol going?’ Magnie asked, once he was into the front seat, and the car moving.

  ‘Well, now, that’s getting interesting.We’ve had a few looking round here, just strolling wi’ their instruments, but a walk up to them usually clears them. If they don’t go by themselves, we just hang aroond an’ watch. But today’s ferry brought us birds of another colour.’ He turned into the single track road leading down to the pier. ‘Are you wont wi’ Unst, Cass?’

  Did I know it, he meant. I shook my head. ‘The last time I was here was for the Baltasound regatta fifteen year ago.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ We drove on, past a couple of ponies dozing in the sun, past a grey standing stone, twice the height of a person, and furred grey-green with lichen. Peter nodded at it. ‘Bordastubble Stone. The tallest of Shetland’s standing stones.’

  He paused to negotiate the single track road leading upwards and stopped at a gate. I took a tighter grip of Cat as Magnie hopped out to open it. Peter nodded his chin at the ruins of the House of Lund, on our left. ‘You’ll likely have heard about this place. The devil’s hoofprint’s under that briggistane.’ I didn’t want to think about devils after that business in Scalloway, which was still inclined to give me nightmares.

  ‘There another two grinds,’ Peter said to Magnie, as we drove on. ‘To the left there, now, Cass, that’s the remains o’ three longhouses. This was a proper Viking community once.’

  I could see stones sticking out of the grass in the field, and took his word for it. We stopped for the second gate, the third, then it was a downhill run to the cemetery, a single-track road. I wondered how a shiny modern hearse would cope.

  ‘Birds of another colour,’ Magnie prompted, as the car rattled to a halt.

  ‘Yea. Well, I had a phone call from me sister-in-law, she works to the police in Lerwick, that it might be an idea to keep a lookout. Four men came off the North boat this morning, no’ exactly criminals, but “known to the police” as being interested in finding treasure.’

  ‘Oh, yea?’ Magnie said.

  ‘Well, I got me brother in Lerwick to watch the folk coming off the boat, and he spotted them no bother. They got into a hire car, and headed up here. It’s a dark grey Star-rent-a-car saloon. I’ve got the make an’ number in me phone, if you need them.’

  I shook my head, and Magnie laughed. ‘Cass here couldn’t tell a Mini from a Mitsubishi.’

  ‘But I can name my boats,’ I retorted.‘A dark grey saloon. Right.’

  ‘All the better for being invisible at night. They’re biding in one o’ the self-catering chalets at Baltasound Hotel. Now, Shona – that’s me sister-in-law, Cass – she said we werna to tackle them ourselves, just to keep an eye on them. There a couple o’ Lerwick officers going to come up to the Unst station tomorrow, that’s in Baltasound an’ aa.It’s no illegal to walk over the hills wi’ a metal detector, so long as they keep well away from the broch an’ the hooses – they’re aa scheduled monuments. It’s no even illegal to dig things up, but a policeman watching might make it more likely the items won’t just vanish. Anyroad, the men spent the morning settling in, and walking round Baltasound, quiet as you please, then they did a bit of a drive around this afternoon – up Saxavord, out to Hermaness, the usual tourist things. They’re back at the hotel now, and they’ve booked a table for dinner. Me great-niece is the receptionist, so she’ll keep us posted.’

  Visitors to Shetland didn’t realise how closely they could be watched, if the locals felt it necessary. ‘What’s the mobile coverage like here?’

  ‘What’re you on?’

  ‘Vodaphone.’

  Peter made a face. ‘Fine at Belmont, but not so good in here. You might get a signal up at the broch.’

  I felt in my pocket for my phone, and snicked it on. It flickered between one bar and none. ‘Not so good, if I need to get hold of you.’

  ‘You’ve a good torch,’ Magnie said, ‘and a bosun’s whistle. See the house up on the hill there, above the upper longhouse? That’s Keith’s house. I’ll tell him to keep an eye open. If you get in trouble, do three flashes right at the house windows, and blow your pipe for all you’re worth.’

  ‘We’ll be keeping an eye on them,’ Peter said. ‘If they head this way, we’ll be right ahint them.’

  The tide was running out fast now, with three metres of beach between my rubber dinghy and the shooshing waves. The men helped me re-launch the dinghy, then I waved them off and rowed home. I made a mug of tea and drank it sitting in the cockpit, sleeping bag tucked around me, watching over my stretch of Viking world. I imagined the double-pointed boats pulled up at the shore, the ring of hammers echoing from the stone-faced house on the hill, the cattle grazing on the parks, or tethered on the lush grass each side of the cultivated rigs. There would be people moving around those vanished homelands, the men in breeches, tunics, fur hats, the women in those long aprons pinned with oval brooches like the ones Keith Sandison had found, the children playing round the house or on the shore. Maybe an excited little girl was running over th
e headland to show her friend the baby her grandfather had carved for her ...

  I dozed for half an hour and woke refreshed. It was a bonny time, poised between late afternoon and evening. The south wind was soft with the approach of spring, and the half moon glimmered pale above the low hills of Yell. The sun was dipping down behind the headland of Blue Mull, the twilight gathering on the land, but it would be another hour and a half before the light went from the sea. I’d have dinner here in the cockpit, rig up the anchor light, have another sleep then go for a patrol by moonlight. Tucked in by the beach here, Khalida was fine and sheltered, and I had a good view of ruined Lund House and the longhouses below it, but Vinstrick Ness, where the Norse warriors had been buried, hid my view of the Underhoull sites.

  I waved my phone round the cockpit till I found two bars, and phoned Gavin. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Our way, so far. The witness I was worried about kept her nerve, and the jury believed her. I can relax now.’

  ‘I’m hunting treasure hunters,’ I said, and explained. I could hear him being not-happy on the other end of the line, but he didn’t tell me to be careful.

  ‘The press is your best ally – you don’t know anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. A journalist with notebook and camera is the best way of stopping things disappearing. Failing that, you, another witness and a photo. I’m not up in treasure trove laws, because it’s a civil matter, not a police one. How about your journey? How’s the weather looking?’

  ‘A front coming over, then fair winds behind it. I’ll make it with a couple of days to spare.’ I had a sudden cold feeling, remembering that I wouldn’t see him again before it, then brightened. ‘Next time I see you will be in Norway, the fjords. If no police work turns up.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to catch all villains before then,’ Gavin promised. His voice wavered, as if he’d gone underwater.

  ‘You’re breaking up.’

  ‘Good luck with your treasure-seekers.’

  ‘Beannachd leat.’ I said it into silence, and felt obscurely cheated.

  I’d put rice in my wide-necked flask before we’d left that morning, so all I needed to do was re-heat the rest of the onions and chicken livers. Dusk was just after six, although the light would glimmer on the sea for another hour. I left Cat washing his whiskers and headed ashore, tucking the grey dinghy amongst the scatter of rocks below the headland, where only someone looking for her would find her. She’d be safe there for several hours, as the tide ebbed away from her. Here, sheltered from the sea wind, I could hear only the waves washing on the shore and curling round the rocks, and the desolate cry of a whaup from the hill. I came up the side of the hill, boots velvet-soft on the sheep-cropped grass. Now I could see all around, from Lund House to the broch. I found myself a sheltered niche among the out-cropping stones, and snuggled my scarlet sailing jacket around me for warmth.

  It was odd to have time just to sit like this. I’d been busy revising for so long that I’d forgotten how to be still. I felt I should be getting out my coloured pens to go over my notes once more, or taking another sheet of paper to make new ones. Now it was all over. I’d achieved my qualification, and soon I’d be joining my ship. Then what? asked a voice in my head. Then ...

  I could feel it already, the deck moving under my feet, the great ship’s wheel between my hands. Instead of this solitary life, there’d be other people. I’d have my fellow crew, and the trainees staying for a week: rich Americans; shoe-string backpackers; naval students; teachers on leave; city business folk who dreamed of the endless sea as they sat at their desks. The keen ones who’d be alert at the first touch of your hand on their foot, even if it was three-thirty in the morning, the reluctant ones who objected to hauling on ropes or standing their watch on a cold foredeck, all squeezed together into this little wooden world in an immensity of ocean. I knew how the ship became a universe, with the land world a distant memory of the way you once did things: freshwater showers; a bedroom of your own – though, as I was an officer, Cat and I would enjoy that luxury –; solitary meals at a time of your own choosing. It was too physical, too ever-present a world: the cold spray on your face as you went about your duties; the ropes bar-taut under your hands; and always the ship moving. I knew that I couldn’t take Gavin with me.

  We could meet, though, as I’d told him. As you came closer to land, as you saw that smudge on the horizon, suddenly you hungered for it: the green of leaves; the gurgling trickle of a stream; meeting your family. I’d want him then. Inverness had flights all over the world, and Aberdeen had loads to Norway, because of oil. Conversely, if we were in port for a while, and the crew wasn’t needed, I could fly from there to Inverness. But was it going to be possible to maintain a relationship between two such separate worlds? The voice in my head replied bleakly, Only if you love each other enough for one of you to give their world up. We can try it, I told the voice.

  I was interrupted in my musings by a flash of light to the south-east, a car turning onto the Lund road. I watched for the headlights coming towards me, but there was only the faint gleam of sidelights as someone drove slowly, cautiously, in the twilight, using the white lines to follow the road. I couldn’t see any colour to the car, just the shiny gleam of it catching the moonlight as it crawled along. Four men, Peter had said. I watched for another flash of a following car, but there was no sign of the cavalry.

  The car crept to a halt just past the upper longhouse. The snick of doors opening and closing carried through the still night, then the car moved on. It was too dark to make out figures from here. I’d have to go closer. I eased my arms out of my too-visible jacket, leaving my dark mid-layer, and began to creep down the side of the hill, torch in hand, thumb on the button, feeling like I was ten again, and playing commandos with Inga and Martin. The important thing was to stay below the skyline and not to run into a flock of sheep, of course. My eyes were well-accustomed to the dark now, and the half-moon cast a silvery light on the ridges, and outlined the tops of the drystane dykes keptup over generations by the crofters whose houses now stood roofless.

  I still couldn’t see any movement. I stood and listened. For a long moment there was silence, then, unmistakeable, the sound of a foot snicking stone against stone. They were up at the south side of the longhouse. I considered the lie of the land. They might be walking the smooth park between the longhouse and the next abandoned crofthouse, but that was obviously land that had been cultivated, so there was less chance of a find. They were more likely to come seawards, to the terraced hill Magnie and I had walked up. If I stayed below them, on the shore, not only would I be seen against the pale sand, but I’d be out of sightline for flashing my alarm signal. I needed to cross the beach and come up the other side of the broch.

  I slipped quickly across the sand by the water, bent double to make me less visible against the gleaming sea, and gained the shelter of the boat noosts. Now I had to go around the lower Viking house and then upwards.

  I had an uneasy feeling down my spine as I came to the low grass-mound of walling, as if I was being watched. I didn’t think the visitors from the car could have seen me, since I couldn’t yet see them, and I was looking for them, while they weren’t looking for me. I’d forgotten Magnie’s talk of Viking ghosts, but now it returned in full measure, and for a moment I thought I saw something, a tall man in bagged leggings and a tunic, with an axe in his hand, then it was gone again. Get a grip, Cass. All the same, I skirted the outside of the house, rather than crossing it, managed to climb over the fence without any of those schrinching noises and headed on hands and feet up the headland to the broch site. It was as tall as me, grassed over too, rock bones covered with velvet sward, sheep-cropped. I leant on it gratefully and set myself to listen.

  I could hear the footsteps clearly now, as if they were just on the other side of the broch.There was more than one set, moving quietly but confidently onwards across what ought to be unknown terrain. I risked easing my head ove
r the rim of my wall, and for a moment my heart stopped, for what I saw was goggle-eyed, pig-snouted aliens, with a tiny red light flashing in each forehead. Then my brain made sense of what I was seeing. They were wearing some kind of infra-red glasses that let them see in the dark. I’d have to be very careful now I was within their range.

  There were only three of them, so the fourth man must have remained in the car, ready to drive it with all lights blazing to the nearest getaway point in case of trouble. Each one had a machine he was sweeping in front of him, and, as they moved closer, I could hear the soft bleeps and see the glow of the display on the top of it. They’d begun at the top left corner of the field which enclosed the upper longhouse and bisected the broch, and were walking in line, two metres apart, parallel with the fence: methodical; professional. I watched as they came down to the broch wall, turned, went back up, turned again, until they’d swept the whole field to seaward of the longhouse. Every so often one would stop, a white light flashing from the digital display, and the others would set their machines down and come to confer, then they’d separate again, and continue walking.

  Once they’d swept the field they came to the broch itself. Once, it had been a great stone tower, fifteen metres across and fifteen high, with stairs between the thick walls and a lookout post on top, like the surviving complete one on the island of Mousa, down the south end of Shetland. Now it was three circular, grass-covered banks sloping to a narrow path between them, tussocked and rough with stones. The moon flashed on the goggles as the men raised their heads to look at it, then, without a word spoken, they split up. One remained where he was, the others climbed along the line of the fence over the first bank; the second remained in the dip inside the outer bank, and the third climbed the second bank to the inner ring. I slid quietly to well back of the person walking the outermost ring, and watched his lights sweeping left, right, left, right. Every so often his detector would bleep, and he’d stop, re-sweep and either move on or bend and plant a marker tipped with luminous paint that glowed green in the moonlight. He paid particular attention to the old chapel area, but found nothing.