Shadows of Death

by Jeanne M. Dams

I spent a little time unpacking and getting acquainted with my home for the next week while Alan found the garage door opener and put the car away. Then we set out for a walk with Watson.

  Alan hadn’t been to Orkney for many years, but it’s a part of the world where things don’t change rapidly. The ferry terminal was new, built to accommodate the huge ‘RORO’ (roll on, roll off) car ferries from Scrabster. That had changed the appearance of the harbour a great deal, and not, I suspected, for the better. But with tourism an important source of income for the islands, it was plainly necessary to make their transportation convenient. We had, after all, planned to arrive at Kirkwall on just such a monstrosity, so it didn’t behove us to throw any stones.

  We moved away from the harbour street, though, up to the one that had several names on the map, but was locally called simply The Street. It was the oddest roadway I’d ever seen. For one thing, at its widest it barely allowed two small cars to pass, and the pedestrians who shared the same thoroughfare had to back into doorways whenever a car came along. At the narrowest point, where it curved a little and buildings jutted out on either side, even one car was hard put to get through. The driver had to exercise great care. I pointed out to Alan the scrapes on the walls where various drivers over the years hadn’t been quite careful enough.

  ‘They were, as I recall, talking about widening the street when I was here last,’ said Alan.

  ‘And that would have been …?’

  ‘In the 1970s sometime.’

  We both chuckled.

  The street wasn’t terribly busy, it being Sunday, so we were able to get a good, leisurely look at our surroundings. There were two hotels, a grocery-cum-bakery-cum-post office, several take-aways, two banks, a pharmacy, a bookstore, clothing stores, a church, gift shops, charity shops, all jammed cheek-by-jowl into the one street, mixed in with houses and B & Bs. Steep little lanes (for walkers; most had steps) led on up to houses at the top of the hill, or down to the harbour. We caught glimpses of tiny, riotous cottage gardens crammed under front windows.

  We wandered, getting our bearings, and then decided to wander back to the apartment for a nap before dinner. We hadn’t got very far, though, before Watson stopped dead in his tracks, braced all four feet, and began to growl, low in his throat.

  Alan and I stared at each other. Watson never growled.

  Then we saw the problem.

  Around one of the corners, in the exact middle of the street, lay a large orange cat. The biggest cat, in fact, that I’ve ever seen. One ear was nicked; the tail was bushed. His white bib looked somehow aggressive. He simply lay there and looked at Watson, ignoring the pedestrian traffic, ignoring the car that was approaching, ignoring everything except this dog that had dared encroach upon his territory.

  Now, Watson likes cats. He lives with two of them, and they all sleep together. He passes the time of day amiably with the neighbourhood cats in Sherebury.

  But he didn’t like this one, and he was making it plain.

  I tugged on his leash. I might as well have tried to move the wall next to me.

  ‘Watson!’ said Alan sharply.

  The dog ignored him. The cat began to growl, too. Its hackles rose. Its tail bushed.

  The car, meanwhile, had come to a stop, unable to pass the cat. The few pedestrians stopped to watch. I was at a loss. Our sweet-tempered dog had never acted this way before.

  Alan made a move to grab Watson’s collar. He growled and snapped. The cat hissed and spat, and lifted a fully armed paw.

  Behind us, a door opened with a bang. ‘Don’t get between them.’ The woman who had emerged spoke urgently, but quietly. ‘Let me deal with this.’

  She crouched and looked the cat in the eye, from a cautious distance. ‘Bad cat! Stop it this instant!’

  The cat looked at her with what I would have sworn was a sneer.

  ‘Be off with you, then!’ The woman took the water pistol out from behind her back and aimed a stream straight at the cat’s face.

  The cat unleashed a string of feline profanity that would have made a sailor blush, but it took off, disappearing into someone’s garden.

  Watson sat back with a silly grin, plainly feeling he had been the victor in the skirmish. He was still there, and unharmed. The cat was gone.

  ‘Ninny!’ I said. ‘You didn’t do a thing except make threats. And whatever made you act that way, anyhow?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the woman with the squirt gun, which she now tucked away in a pocket. ‘It’s not your dog’s fault. That cat antagonizes everyone, and he can do a lot of damage if he wishes.’

  ‘Is he yours, then?’ asked Alan, with deceptive mildness. He didn’t like to see animals left untrained.

  ‘No, praise the Lord! He doesn’t belong to anyone; he’s the town menace.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘He has several names,’ said the woman grimly. ‘Some of them are polite.’

  We laughed at that, and the scene broke up. The patient driver steered her car past us, and we followed the woman back into the cat rescue shop she’d come from.

  ‘You can come in for a moment if you like, but you’ll have to leave your dog outside,’ said the woman, pleasantly enough. ‘We’re not open. I came over to feed our strays, and most of them are afraid of dogs.’

  ‘But … if the orange cat is still around …’

  ‘He won’t be. He’ll be washing his face and plotting revenge somewhere.’

  Alan took Watson back outside, and I gave the woman a quizzical look. ‘But you must like cats, or you wouldn’t be working for a cat charity.’

  ‘I love cats, but not Roadkill.’

  ‘Roadkill!’

  ‘That’s one of his names. You saw him lying in the middle of the road. It’s his favourite place. The sun warms the stones, you see.’

  ‘And as the whole town belongs to him, he sees no reason why he should move. I understand. Well, he’s a character.’

  ‘He’s all of that. But do be careful of him. For all he’s adapted to living around humans, he’s truly a feral cat, and can be truly dangerous. Keep your dog on a short lead, and don’t let him out on his own. The cat knows him for an enemy now.’

  I promised to keep Watson under control, put a donation in the jar by the cash register, and re-joined my husband and dog. ‘The serpent in paradise?’ I said.

  ‘As you say.’ Alan was rather silent on the way back to our apartment. I thought he’d taken the encounter more seriously than I had. But then he’s an Englishman, and dogs are Very Important Persons to the English.

  We had a cup of tea before settling down to a nap, and then showered and changed for our meal with Andrew.

  Alan told me not to dress up. ‘Orkney is very informal,’ he assured me. So I put on clean slacks and a nice sweater, with a cardigan on top of that and, of course, a hat. This was a woolly one meant to keep my head warm, but bright orange with crocheted flowers and really quite decorative. I’d been right about the climate. Though the sun was shining brightly (still, at seven in the evening), the air was nippy with a brisk wind. I added wool gloves to the ensemble, and we headed up to The Street.

  Our meal was delicious. Once on a trip to Iona I’d learned to eat haggis, and actually quite liked it. This time it was served as an appetizer, a ‘starter’ as the Brits call them. The haggis, which is basically a mixture of oats and meat and spices, had been rolled up into little balls, breaded, and fried. It was hot and crisp and tasty, and was served with a whisky sauce, since the traditional drink with haggis is whisky. Then we had local lamb and local vegetables, fresh and tender and wonderful, and finished up with sticky toffee pudding, the most decadent dessert ever created. By the time we were ready to leave, I felt they could have simply rolled me down the hill to the apartment.

  But the real substance of the meal was archaeology. We had barely tucked into our haggis when Andrew began.

  ‘So when are you going to visit our latest discoveries?’

  �
��Can we actually visit? You made the site sound nearly in accessible,’ said Alan.

  ‘Nearly is not quite. I can take us over in my launch. It’ll have to be tomorrow, though, because I’m leaving for Spain the next day with a load of pots. And we should go in the morning, because I want you to have time to see everything, and there’s a meeting of the Friends in the evening. You’ll want to go to that, of course.’

  ‘A Friends’ meeting?’ I echoed with a bit of a frown. ‘I’m not sure—’

  Andrew gave a shout of laughter. ‘Not Quakers, love! The Friends of Ancient Orkney. And it could turn out to be quite interesting, because these days “friends” is perhaps not the most appropriate word.’

  Alan tilted his head to one side in a quizzical look.

  ‘This is an important site, you understand. Huge, or it could be when we’ve finished. Rich in artefacts. We could learn more about the Neolithic in this part of the world than … well, one can scarcely imagine the limits. So of course there are, shall we say, a few differences of opinion on various matters.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Andrew laughed again, but I thought it sounded a little hollow this time. ‘It would be easier to list the non-controversies. The archaeologists are arguing over the extent of the dig, the farmer who owns the land is ready to do murder over his compensation, the museums are fighting over who gets the artefacts …’

  ‘And I suppose there’s the usual difficulty about funding.’

  ‘Oh, there’s difficulty, all right, but not in the usual way. The money’s pouring in. We can scarcely spend it fast enough.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’ I asked.

  ‘The problem, really the biggest problem of them all, is the donor.’

  ‘Donor, singular?’

  ‘Oh, very singular indeed. He’s American, and he’s very, very rich.’ Andrew didn’t need to say more. His tone of voice said it all.

  ‘You don’t need to be diplomatic, Andrew,’ I said with a grimace. ‘I’m no fonder of the genus “Arrogant Wealthy American” than you are. I take it he’s a pain in the neck?’

  ‘I’d locate the pain a bit lower,’ said Andrew. ‘In fact, saving your presence, Dorothy, he’s a right bastard. The project is getting terribly expensive and depends utterly upon his support, and he knows it. If he pulls out, the dig will have to close down, and God knows where we’d find funding to start up again. So he throws his weight about at every opportunity. And the worst of it is, the man fancies himself an archaeologist, so he’s trying to force some vital decisions.’

  He took a healthy swig of his wine and then a deep breath. ‘Not the sort of conversation for a pleasant dinner, is it? Let’s talk about something else. Dorothy, that’s an astonishing hat you’re wearing.’

  THREE

  Before we went home for the night, Andrew arranged to pick us up at seven in the morning. I wasn’t terribly happy about the hour. I am not at any time a bright and shining morning person, and this was supposed to be a vacation. But it was going to take quite a time to get to the island with the odd name, so we needed to get on with it.

  Watson is always excited about the prospect of a ride, no matter what the hour, so the three of us bundled into Andrew’s car the next morning and he drove us north and east to the tiny village of Tingwall, where his launch was berthed. He indicated various points of interest along the way, but I was too sleepy to pay a lot of attention. The sun had been up for hours, but though my body was ambulatory, my brain was still curled up in bed.

  I’d prudently taken a ginger capsule before we set out, since I’m a terrible sailor, and the rest of the trip was by sea. Andrew had cheerfully announced that the water ‘could be a wee bit rough’, which, as I know to my sorrow, is the seaman’s way of describing anything up to gale-force winds and boat-swamping waves.

  The launch was a pleasant little boat, and fortunately Watson seemed quite happy to climb aboard. Andrew had thoughtfully brought along coffee and buns. I thought I’d better avoid food, but I drank the coffee, strong and hot and wonderful, and began to wake up a little and even to enjoy the beauty around me. It was a gorgeous day, warm for these northern lands, with just enough of a breeze to make the air feel like a tonic.

  ‘All right, love?’ asked Alan, who knows my unfortunate re action to water travel.

  ‘I’m fine. Really. I think I might even have a bun with my coffee.’

  He looked dubious, but I didn’t see how one rather bland bun could do me any harm. Nor did it. I clapped my hat down firmly and left the shelter of the cabin to stand out on deck and watch the passing scene.

  From the sea, the islands were remarkably similar. We passed close to the shore for much of the start of our journey, in a progression from one ‘sound’ to the next. Gairsay Sound, Eynhallow Sound, Wyre Sound: wonderful names. The exciting Neolithic sites weren’t obvious from there, though I could see the odd standing stone here and there. But mostly there were fields, tiny villages, roads, and sky – limitless sky. Watson wasn’t interested in the view, but he was fascinated by all the new and enticing scents. For a dog brought up in the Cotswolds and now living in a cathedral city far from the sea, this was an entrancing world.

  We passed ferries on the way, small car ferries with one or two vehicles aboard. I popped back into the cabin to query Andrew. ‘I thought you said there was no ferry service.’

  ‘Not to where we’re going, only to the principal islands. We could have gone most of the way by commercial ferry, but the launch is a lot quicker. We’ll be heading out into open water soon. How are you doing?’

  ‘Nary a qualm. You’re an excellent driver.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I always choose the flattest water when ladies are aboard.’ And he turned his attention back to the wheel.

  When we turned north into open water, the wind grew a bit stronger and the sea a little less like a lily pond, and I thought it prudent to take another ginger capsule and retire to the quietest part of the cabin with eyes firmly shut. I didn’t want to tarnish a new friendship with Andrew by being sick all over his boat.

  The trip seemed, after that, to take a long time, although Andrew told us later we had travelled less than twenty nautical miles. I think I actually dozed for part of the way, but I opened my eyes now and then, saw water and sky, and closed them again. Then Alan was touching my shoulder and saying, ‘Re-entry time, darling. We’re here.’

  ‘Here’ was a beautiful place, a little cove of sparkling white sand dotted with black rocks. I saw what looked like hundreds of birds, gulls and others I didn’t know. And: ‘Look, Alan! Seals, as I live and breathe!’

  There were dozens of them, sunning sleekly on the rocks or surfacing briefly out of the water before diving again. ‘I suppose they’re fishing,’ I said to Andrew, ‘but they look like they’re just playing.’

  ‘P’raps they are playing,’ said Andrew. ‘P’raps they’re selkies.’ I had never heard of selkies, so Andrew had to explain to me, straight-faced, about the seals that could transform themselves into humans and back again. ‘They like to play.’

  Andrew had been taking the boat around a corner to a landing place where there was a rudimentary dock. ‘There’s better mooring on the other side of the island,’ he said as he was making her fast to a post, ‘but it’s closer to the dig, so it’s needed by the workers. She’ll be safe here for a bit, till low tide. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to leave Watson on board. Dogs aren’t allowed at the dig. Can you climb a bit, Dorothy?’

  We left our disconsolate dog behind, and with Alan’s help I had no trouble scrambling up the gentle slope to the grassy plain above. There I stopped, struck motionless in sheer amazement.

  As far as I could see, the surface of the island had been transformed into a series of excavations. The effect was of the top layer being scraped away to reveal what lay just below. And what lay below was astounding.

  ‘It’s a long way from being open to the public, you’ll understand,’ Andrew was saying. ‘But they know
me. It’ll be all right so long as you mind how you go. Can’t have you falling in a five-thousand-year-old pit, now can we?’

  But I was paying little attention, caught up in the sheer wonder of it.

  Once, back home in Indiana, I’d been doing some gardening and turned up an oddly shaped stone. I realized after a time that it had been shaped by a long-dead hand, notches cut out at one end to allow for fastening the thing to a stick or whatever, for use as a tool or weapon. I wasn’t sure when the native peoples inhabited my part of the state, but I knew the Europeans had come in the late seventeenth century, so this stone had lain there under my chrysanthemum bed for many hundreds of years. I was thrilled.

  Now I was looking at structures, houses or temples or workshops or whatever they might have been, that had been fashioned by human hands not just hundreds, but thousands of years ago. They were below ground level now, and perhaps they always had been. I didn’t know enough even to guess. The roofs were long gone, so one could look directly down into them, and what a sight they were.

  To my dazzled eye, there seemed to be dozens of them, separate structures, all of roughly the same size and shape. They were more or less rectangular, the corners somewhat rounded. The walls, butting up against the supporting earth, were of carefully worked stones, thinnish and flat, laid atop one another like bricks, but without mortar, at least so far as I could tell. Many of the structures were still being excavated, but the ones that were nearly completed showed one main room, with an entrance area and one or two small rooms. In the centre of the main room was what looked very much like a hearth, and there were box-like constructions along the side walls, with sides one stone thick and nearly perfect right angles. At one end, consistently, there was a construction that looked, astoundingly, rather like a bookshelf.

  ‘Andrew,’ I said when I could catch my breath, ‘what is all this?’

  He grinned. ‘A village. Almost, in Neolithic terms, a city. The largest such find in history. So far they’ve found twenty houses, far more than there are modern ones on the island, and five other structures, one very large.’