Shadows of Death

by Jeanne M. Dams

  There it stands on its hill, silhouetted against the sky, a monument to … to what?

  ‘It was a temple,’ I said in a whisper. Somehow I felt compelled to whisper.

  ‘That’s one theory, at least.’ Alan was speaking quietly, too. So were the other tourists.

  ‘It’s more than a theory. It was a temple. It still is.’

  ‘You “just know”?’

  ‘Yes.’ I made no attempt to explain, or defend myself. I did know, beyond doubt. This had been a place of worship, and the spirits, or the gods, or the echoes of the worship, were still here.

  At some point we had left the car. I didn’t remember getting out, but there we were, standing on the hill, the wind soughing through the Ring. I took Alan’s arm.

  ‘All right, love?’

  ‘Just a little lightheaded. Who wouldn’t be?’

  He looked at me with concern.

  ‘Alan, I’m fine,’ I said with some impatience. ‘Just overwhelmed by this place. You didn’t tell me it was like this!’

  ‘It’s a bit like what you always say about the Grand Canyon, love. One can’t describe it in any meaningful way. Even pictures don’t convey the magnificence. A person must experience it to understand.’

  I nodded. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to walk, and look, and listen to the wind moaning among the stones, and let the centuries seep into me.

  We walked around together, Alan now and then consulting the guide book he’d bought somewhere and quoting something from it. I wished he wouldn’t. I love my husband dearly, but I wanted him to shut up and let me just be. After a while, and another worried glance or two, he saw that I wasn’t paying attention and was silent.

  Suddenly, though, I wanted information. ‘Alan,’ I said urgently, ‘did they ever make sacrifices here?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He leafed through the booklet. ‘It says quite definitely that there was never human sacrifice, but it doesn’t mention animal sacrifices, either yea or nay. The gist of it is, I suppose, that they don’t really know. It’s like so much else. They have to rely on educated guesswork. Why? You aren’t … er … getting any strange vibes, are you?’

  ‘No terrifying ones, at any rate. But sacrifices to the gods are such an important part of most ancient religions, I wondered. Even the ancient Hebrews. Abraham thought he was going to have to sacrifice his son.’

  ‘But it didn’t turn out that way.’

  ‘No. There was the ram in the thicket. But the ram died, didn’t he? Oh, I wish we could know what these people believed, what rites they practised! I’d like to be able to imagine this place in use as it was meant to be used. It would be strange, even perhaps repugnant, but I’d like to know.’

  ‘I think it’s a good thing that tomorrow is Sunday. We can go practice our own rites, and exorcise the demons.’

  A crowd of tourists arrived, with some noisy children who seemed not to feel the atmosphere of the place. The spell was broken. I smiled at Alan. ‘Let’s go see Skara Brae.’

  The ancient village is just a few miles down the road from the Ring. We had to enter through a visitors’ centre and pay for tickets, which seemed a little odd until I considered how much it must cost to keep these places in repair. Medieval cathedrals cost hundreds of thousands of pounds every year to keep up. How much more so a set of structures dating from around 3000 BC?

  Walking up to the village, I was captivated by a series of stone markers comprising a timeline. ‘Look at this, Alan! “Skara Brae, 3100 BC. Pyramids of Giza, 2500 BC. Stonehenge 2100 BC.” This place is a thousand years older than Stonehenge!’

  Behind me, a dry, petulant voice interrupted. ‘They’re wrong about that date, you know.’

  I turned around to see the last man I expected, or wanted, just then. I smiled, of course, and nodded. ‘Mr Norquist. How nice.’

  ‘They’ve got that date wrong,’ he persisted. ‘I’ve told them and told them, but they won’t change it. They’re at least a hundred years off.’

  I feigned interest. ‘Is that right? Well, I don’t suppose it makes a lot of difference when you’re dealing with thousands of years.’

  Norquist bristled. ‘It makes a difference to Them!’ He pointed in the direction of the village ahead. ‘Five or six generations! Would you want your family history distorted that badly?’

  ‘Well, no, I guess I wouldn’t.’ I exchanged glances with Alan, whose raised eyebrows and rolled eyes conveyed: See what I mean? Humour the man. ‘But you see, it must have cost a lot to have these stones carved. I imagine they can’t afford to change them.’

  ‘They can afford it now! The Friends could pay for it. I intend to keep on making myself heard until they do something about it. We mustn’t offend Them. Excuse me.’

  He bustled off, back toward the visitors’ centre.

  Alan and I looked at each other. ‘He really is just a little—’ I said.

  ‘More than a little, I’d say. Dorothy, I hope …’

  I laughed. ‘Don’t worry, love! I don’t believe they’re still here, or not that way. Their influence, yes. But I don’t see them hovering in wrath and casting a spell on us because we got a date wrong. And how does he think he knows, anyway? A hundred years is nothing in archaeological time!’

  Alan shrugged. ‘The man’s a fanatic. He would probably say one of Them told him.’ Alan pronounced it with a definite capital letter. ‘Come on, let’s see the village.’

  The vibes, as Alan called them, were much different here. This had been a place of everyday life. I was enchanted with the houses. They had been built mostly below ground, their stone walls acting as retaining walls for the earth on the outside. The roofs were all gone; they had probably been shored up by scarce timbers that had rotted away centuries before. But we could look down into the dwellings and see the box beds the occupants had built out of the thin stones. There were structures that looked very much like the ‘dressers’, as they call them on this side of the pond, the hutches in one’s kitchen that hold tableware. And, reading the guidebook, I found to my delight that the ancient people apparently used them for just that purpose, for potsherds had been found with them.

  There were eight houses in the village. Most had a central hearth; probably each roof had had a hole for the smoke. And some had tiny rooms off the main room, little rooms with, improbably, drains.

  ‘Alan!’ I said, in great amusement. ‘They had indoor plumbing!’

  ‘Not so stupid, those old folks,’ murmured Alan.

  I read further in the book. ‘And they were farmers. They raised cattle and sheep, or maybe goats, and barley and maybe wheat.’ I skipped over the details of how the archaeologists knew, or surmised, all that. ‘I can see them, Alan. I can just see the women bringing their pitchers, and their children, to the well, if there was one, and gossiping with the other women, while the men were tending the livestock. Ordinary people, going quietly about their everyday lives. Maybe that’s why I can feel their presence so strongly. They were just like us!’

  We saw no more of Norquist, for which I was grateful. I had some sympathy with the little man when he wasn’t around. When he was, I found him almost unbearably irritating. Still … ‘Alan, I wonder what he’s doing here at this time of day. Shouldn’t he be at the museum guarding his treasures?’

  ‘I wondered, too. Saturday is surely a busy day for visitors, and a beautiful summer Saturday … You don’t suppose he’s already been sacked?’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t be going around acting so self-important if he had been. At any rate, I want to see the museum. Shall we go this afternoon, or would you rather not, since you’ve already been there?’

  ‘But I spent most of my time talking to Norquist. I’m happy to go again. But lunch first. All this time-travel has given me a powerful appetite. And thirst. Let’s find a pub.’

  THIRTEEN

  We hurried through our pub lunch, because we’d left Watson back at the flat, and he’d be feeling bereft, and more than ready to go out.
I hoped we hadn’t left it too long. Someone else’s house … But he’d been good; he was frantic, though, so Alan slipped on his leash. ‘I’ll walk up to the museum, just to make sure it’s open in Norquist’s absence.’

  He was back before I had a chance to rest my aching back. ‘No luck, I’m afraid. It’s locked up tight. Saturday hours are supposed to be ten to five, and there’s no note on the door, nothing. Just a securely locked door and no lights on.’

  ‘Then he has been fired, after all.’

  ‘But you’d think someone would have posted a notice.’

  ‘You would, wouldn’t you? Alan, I think we have to check this out. It’s probably of no importance, but it’s a peculiar thing, and with a recent murder, peculiar things take on a certain significance.’

  ‘Agreed. I’ll phone Fairweather. Perhaps we could take a drive in to Kirkwall.’

  We weren’t thinking clearly, either of us. I listened to Alan’s end of the conversation.

  ‘Ah, yes, Alan Nesbitt here. My wife and I were thinking of driving to Kirkwall a little later, and hoped we could buy you a drink. Ah. Oh, yes, of course. That’s good news, isn’t it? Would we be frightfully in the way if …? Good. We may see you later, then.’

  ‘He’s back on the dig,’ I surmised. ‘We should have known.’

  ‘And pleased as a dog with two tails, by the sound of his voice. Are you up for the trip over there? It’ll take most of the rest of the day.’

  I looked out the window. The sea, at least in our harbour, looked like a millpond. ‘Sure. But you know, once they get the site fully excavated, someone’s going to have to organize a regular ferry service from Kirkwall or somewhere. They can expect lots of tourists, but only if it’s easy to get to.’

  ‘They won’t need to worry about that for some years yet, I expect. Bring something warm, darling. You know how quickly the weather can change.’

  I also took a ginger capsule and tucked the packet into my handbag. Alan phoned the boat rental place and was pleased to get the same boat we’d used before. The drive to Tingwall seemed shorter than before, and this time I had much more of an eye for the landscape. ‘It does have an austere beauty all its own, doesn’t it? But I still need trees.’

  ‘We’ll have to go over to Shapinsay one day, and you can wander in the castle’s wood. That should help.’

  The sea was still calm for the trip to Papa Sanday, and when we got there the landing place was calm, too, unlike the last time. Watson wanted to come with us when we berthed.

  ‘Surely he’d be all right on the lead,’ I pleaded on his behalf. ‘He hasn’t been getting nearly enough exercise lately. We can always tie him up somewhere if he gets to be a nuisance.’

  So he scrambled with us to the top of the plateau, and I was once again struck by the sheer extent of the excavations. ‘Alan, this is going to be five or six times the size of Skara Brae when they’ve finished. It’s mind-boggling.’

  ‘It’s all of that. Have you got a good hold on Watson? Then let’s go and find Fairweather.’

  Workers were out in force on this glorious day. The rain of a few days before had created mud everywhere, so everyone looked alike: mud-coloured from head to foot. Alan spoke to the nearest mud-person.

  ‘The boss? Over there, I think, at structure fifteen. That’s the big one, down at the far end.’ The creature, whose sex was indeterminate, was by accent American. It pointed vaguely with a trowel, grinned, and went back to work. We slogged over to ‘the far end’, trying without much success to stick to grassy areas. ‘I’m going to have to throw these shoes away when we get back,’ I complained. ‘And Watson will need a major bath.’

  The dog looked at me, alarmed by the hated word, but decided I didn’t mean it and lolloped along happily.

  It took us a little while to find Fairweather, mostly because he looked exactly like all the other mud-people. Eventually we identified him by his English accent as he called excitedly to the other workers.

  They came slipping over the muddy, uneven paths, and we joined them.

  ‘Fairweather, is that you behind the mud pack?’

  ‘Nesbitt? I’ll be gorgeous when it comes off, if the cosmetology propaganda has any truth to it. But just have a look at this!’

  He held up an object as covered in mud as everything else, and the workers crowed over it. Some of them did, anyway. Some of them seemed as mystified as I.

  ‘Oh, I forgot how ignorant some of you lot are. It’s a bone knife, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it. When this is cleaned up, you’ll see it’s decorated. See the striations here, and here? If those are natural grain, I’ll eat this thing, mud and all. And the decorations make it a …’ He paused and looked up at the workers.

  ‘A ceremonial knife!’ a couple of them shouted.

  ‘I’m betting on it! And that makes this site—’

  ‘A temple!’

  Fairweather roared with laughter. ‘You’re as easy to fool as I am! One knife does not a temple make, and we won’t really know about the striations until we get it clean. But if I’m right, this is a major find, chaps.’

  ‘Hey!’ said one of the workers.

  ‘And chapesses. Sorry, Frieda. So –’ turning to us – ‘you showed up at an auspicious moment. It isn’t every day we find something really splendid. Most of archaeology is hard, slogging work for damn little reward. But when you come across something like that – wow!’

  ‘Congratulations!’ I said, and meant it. ‘But, Mr … I mean, Robert, you hinted that a ceremonial knife meant this was a temple. I know you were joking, but why would it mean that? And I’m actually not at all sure I want to know the answer, come to think of it.’

  ‘I think you already know the answer. Yes, there were sacrifices.’

  I swallowed hard. ‘And what were the sacrificial victims?’

  ‘Oh, infants, the odd vestal virgin.’ He was watching my face. ‘You don’t believe me, do you? And you’re quite right. It’s the old guesswork problem again, but from what’s been found, in Orkney and other places, sacrifices were either of small mammals like rabbits, or were purely symbolic with sheaves of wheat burned at whatever stood in for an altar. It was probably all very dramatic, with special rituals and all, but not particularly gruesome.’

  ‘Whew! I was imagining something straight out of a B movie.’

  ‘Well, I won’t keep you. You’ll want to look around. Watch how you go. The mud’s made everything twice as treacherous.’

  ‘Actually, we wanted to talk to you for a moment,’ said Alan.

  ‘Of course, if we can talk here. As you see, I’m literally knee-deep in work.’

  ‘Oh, this isn’t especially private. It’s just that we wanted to see the Ancient Orkney Museum this afternoon, but it’s closed. Have the hours been changed?’

  Fairweather sat back on his heels, looking furious. ‘Not to my knowledge, and certainly not with my permission. I suppose the wretched man is ill or something. He might have let one know. This is the busy season for the museum, and there’s only the one volunteer with a key and I think she’s off-island just now. None of the others can get in if it’s locked up. We’re going to lose money, having it closed on a Saturday, of all days. Thanks for telling me, Alan. I’ll see the idiot gets what’s coming to him!’

  ‘Oh, don’t be too hard on him, Robert,’ I pleaded. ‘It’s been a difficult week for him.’

  ‘It’s been a difficult week for us all, but the rest of us have gone back to work, haven’t we? And in fact …’ He looked covetously at the knife in his hand.

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ll let you get on with it. Good hunting.’ Alan took my arm and led me away.

  ‘You didn’t tell him Norquist was perfectly well and kicking. Especially kicking,’ I said when we were out of earshot.

  ‘No. Fairweather was angry enough without that. And he had a knife in his hands.’

  I laughed. ‘He might be ready to do violence, but probably not to you, and certainly not with
his precious find. I have to say it takes a lot of imagination to recognize that lump of mud as a knife.’

  ‘Imagination and experience, and he has a lot of both, presumably.’ Alan sighed. ‘Now that we’re here, we might as well take a tour of the dig and increase our knowledge. We’re not making progress on any other front.’

  ‘At least Fairweather dispelled my disturbing images of human sacrifice. I count that as a plus.’

  The dig was, in fact, extremely interesting. The workers were happy enough to stand up, stretch their muscles, and explain what they were doing, pointing out interesting bits. We were shown the ‘paint shop’ where they thought the paints for the stones had been prepared. The mortars and lumps of pigment had been removed to the museum, but the place still fascinated me.

  ‘They went to all that trouble,’ I marvelled, ‘to make something beautiful. Martha Stewart, alive and well in 3000 BC.’

  ‘You should not joke here.’ That same high, pedantic voice came from behind us. ‘They would not like it.’

  Watson whined and I took Alan’s arm. ‘But this isn’t a temple, or any sacred place,’ I said, as gently as I could. ‘It’s the paint shop.’

  ‘The paints were made for the rituals. All places were sacred to Them. You must be reverent.’

  A shout of laughter came from a distant area of the dig. Norquist frowned. ‘They should be careful. There are punishments for those who blaspheme.’

  He stalked off.

  ‘Alan, let’s get out of here. I’ll swear that man isn’t quite safe. I don’t feel sorry for him anymore. I’m just plain scared.’

  ‘I imagine Fairweather will deal with him, but I agree. Something’s snapped in the last few days. He’s a fool to come around here. He must know Fairweather would be out for his blood over his dereliction of duty.’

  I remembered the knife, if it really was one. ‘Poor figure of speech, Alan. Let’s go.’