Women of the Dunes

by Sarah Maine

  Ellen climbed to the top of the rise, slightly breathless from the heat, and stopped to feel again the warmth on her face, and just for a moment she allowed herself to forget that her mother lay hollow-eyed and listless awaiting her return— Then she continued on along the old drove road to where it dipped down towards a stream. A small bridge spanned the water there, and the track rose again before its final descent into Ullaness. Something moved ahead of her, disappearing into the shadows, a deer perhaps come down to drink.

  Downstream of the bridge a clump of trees overhung the water, and this made for a sheltered spot, a cool place of dappled sunlight and leafy shade. And just out of sight the stream narrowed to drop as a thin veil of a waterfall and fed a small pool flanked by yellow iris. One or two of them had probably already opened, she thought, and decided she would stop there a moment and rest, and so she left the track.

  Climbing over mossy boulders, Ellen followed the waterfall down, passing under low branches where the air was sweet and the shadows darkened. Twigs and cones crackled under her feet as she continued to a place where the undergrowth opened up, letting in the light, and there was the pool, sunlit and clear, hidden from view.

  She stood a moment, savouring her solitude; then she knelt on the mossy turf beside a clump of marsh marigolds which cast their golden light on the water and loosened her hair, letting it fall forward. Looking down at her reflection, she allowed herself to imagine for a moment that it was Ulla who looked back, her image rippling just below the water. Surely she must have found this place, and come here; Ellen could almost sense her presence. The little waterfall made a gentle sound as it fell to the pool, and beside it the fiddle-heads of new bracken gave off a humid, peppery scent, while above her a blackbird gave its liquid call. She would stay here, hidden, just for a moment, and let the quiet and the peace and the sense of timelessness give her succour.

  Perhaps it was Ulla herself who had drawn her here.

  After a moment she bent forward and splashed the cool water onto her face, cupping her hand to drink. Then she sat on a boulder beside the pool and pulled off her shoes and stockings, hitching her skirt to her knees, and stretched her slender legs to the water. The gasping cold was followed by an almost painful bliss as her hot feet found relief, and then, leaning forward, she cupped her hand again and began washing her lower limbs. Remembering the scrap of linen in her pocket, she dipped it in the water, squeezed it, and lifted her hair, rubbing the cloth along the arch of her neck, and closed her eyes in luxurious pleasure before letting her hair fall back. Had Ulla come here to bathe? And perhaps to grieve for Harald, lost to her forever. The blackbird ceased its song, and around her the woodland grew silent. She wetted the cloth again, squeezed it, and then unbuttoned the front of her blouse, delighting in the cool water on her throat—

  A fish jumped in front of her, and she opened her eyes, seeing widening circles ripple across the pool. A fish, in so small a pool! She shut them again. Another plop sounded, but her eyes stayed closed and slowly her feet traced swirling circles of their own, the reeds silky against her skin.

  A third pebble landed just in front of her. “My God, nymph, you put on a good show,” and Mungo Sturrock stepped out from where he had been hidden in the deep shadows, his voice not quite his own. Ellen leapt from the boulder, fumbled for her shoes and, not finding them, turned to flee barefooted.

  But with a single stride, Mungo crossed the stream and clouds dimmed the sun.

   Oliver

  “Ellen’s mother is poorly this morning, sir, and Ellen has asked leave to stay with her,” Mrs. Nichol said as she brought Oliver his breakfast next morning. “Quite tearful she was.”

  “Oh dear! Poor Ellen. I will call by later this morning.” There could be little doubt that the poor woman was fading. She hardly left her bed now, and Ellen had been backwards and forwards to the cottage these last days, her face increasingly strained. The old lady’s passing could not be far off.

  And what then?

  Ellen must leave the cottage, that much he knew, but at least she now had a place here; already he could not imagine the house without her. He would listen for her light footfall in the mornings, and knew a great delight when he heard her singing or humming as she sometimes did when she swept the hall. She was happy here and blooming! He took a mouthful of porridge and ate thoughtfully, not able, not in the daylight hours anyway, to admit where, in the hours of darkness, his mind had begun to wander. But there would be time enough for such thought, and for now the sweetness of it brightened his days.

  A loud knock disturbed his reverie, and a moment later the door was flung open and Alick Sturrock exploded into the room. “Oliver! Forgive me, but you’ll have to come. It’s an absolute outrage!”

  “My dear fellow—”

  “Bloody Mungo. He’s wrecked everything!”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Up at the headland. He’s dug up the floor and found bones. There’s the most almighty outcry! Someone came up to the house at first light protesting to Papa, thinking we’d done it, so I went back with them to have a look, and it’s a complete shambles. Bones everywhere. God knows what he thought he was doing! And then I found he’d left me this, curse him.” He thrust a sheet of notepaper into Oliver’s hand.

  Before you, little brother! I leave the remains to you and Drummond.

  “And now he’s gone off, leaving a pile of bones and a hell of a mess for us to clear up. Mama is furious, and people are gathering up there.”

  Oh God. “I’ll come.”

  They left the house together and made for the headland, where Oliver could see a collection of a dozen or so people, dark clothes flapping in the strengthening breeze. Dour looks and murmurs of disapproval greeted their approach, and the group fell back to expose the results of Mungo’s handiwork. “It’s a sacrilege,” one voice said, as they passed.

  “Aye, there was no reason for it—”

  No. No reason. Nor had there been reason behind what appeared to have been frenzied digging over much of the floor of the little cell. It had been hacked into with neither care nor caution, and the garden spade that had been used still stood propped up against the pile of rocks. Beside it lay something else, the bones presumably, now covered discreetly with a sheet.

  A member of his own small congregation stepped forward. “This is not right, minister.”

  “No,” Oliver said, returning him a direct look. “It isn’t. And it should not have happened.”

  “So why’d you do it?” a voice jeered from the group.

  How to phrase their defence? Oliver had no particular desire to protect Mungo Sturrock, but he knew that he must consider the reputation of the family. “I did not do it, Mr. McBeath, nor did Mr. Alick Sturrock. It was done overnight by . . . someone.” He caught Alick’s eye and read approval. But how many more of Mungo’s transgressions must he cover up? “It was a dreadful thing to have done.”

  “But you began the business!”

  Oliver looked at the sea of faces and felt the heat of their animosity. Dear God, how he had failed them! He recognised members of his own congregation, their faces angry and troubled, but there were also people he barely knew, those who attended the Free Church, people who were pugnacious and outspoken. The matter could hardly be worse. He spoke loudly above the discordant mutterings. “Our interest was purely in the history of the structure. We’d no reason to believe that there was a burial here.” Though perhaps they should have expected it, and, if truth be told, they probably would have dug up the floor themselves in the next day or so, albeit in a more controlled and careful manner. But on encountering the bones, they would have had the decency to stop, and the sense to keep quiet.

  “You should have known better, minister.” The man spoke again, louder this time, confident that he had the group behind him. “This place should never have been disturbed!”

  His hostility seemed to arouse Alick’s indignation. “Why not? This was a scientific enquiry.”
<
br />   “And what have you learned, Mr. Sturrock, that we did not know before?” This came from a big man, a stalwart of the Free Church congregation, a man who had standing in the community.

  There was really no answer to that, and Alick made a poor fist of it. “We’ve learned about the shape of the structure . . . its size . . . and—”

  “And what, young sir?”

  Oliver stepped in to rescue him. “This travesty was not of our doing, Mr. McClure. The work began as a simple considered matter of enquiry which has been . . .” He wanted to say desecrated but the word would rebound against him. “. . . violated by a thoughtless individual, or individuals, sometime last night. But let me remind you that these bones, though they are to be respected, are ancient bones, and the soul is long departed.” There were more mutterings but Oliver pressed on. “They will be reburied today, I promise you, and with due reverence. I will conduct a brief service and say prayers here which everyone is welcome to attend—”

  “And you’ll put the stones back as they were!” someone shouted from the back.

  Oliver glanced briefly at Alick, who gave a slight nod. “And the stones will be put back as they were.”

  “And what if the bones are those of a pagan?” the Free Churchman asked.

  Alick really would have done well to stay silent and let Oliver handle the situation. “Do your prayers only intercede for those who have heard the word of God, Mr. McClure?” he asked.

  There was sharp intake of breath, followed by an expectant silence. It seemed that the sky darkened above them, and the man’s voice carried like the distant growl of thunder. “Meaning what, young man?”

  Oliver saw with dismay that Alick was ready to take him on. He was more used to caps being doffed and to unquestioning respect than to confrontation, and perhaps the man had probed too deep. These were ideas that he and Alick had wrestled with, but this was neither the time nor the place to explore them. “Gentlemen—” Oliver began, but Alick spoke over him.

  “Meaning that if the bones are those of a pagan, ignorant of your god, then is the soul bound for hellfire, sir, regardless of virtue?”

  Another shocked silence followed, and Oliver tried again. “This is not the moment to—”

  “You speak lightly of hellfire, Mr. Sturrock.” Alick’s adversary had grown red in the face and ignored Oliver’s intervention. “And who is your god, if different to mine?”

  “I ask only if a pagan is undeserving of your prayers?”

  “Alick, for pity’s sake!” Oliver hissed, and moved in front of him, determined to close the debate, as there was now a groundswell of dark mutterings and angry looks. “We need not discuss this now, gentlemen, and given the place the bones were found, it can be assumed that this person was a Christian. Even if that was not the case, our prayers must try to intercede for the soul of the departed. Now, who amongst you will volunteer to make a simple box which will serve as a coffin? I will cover the cost myself, and I believe the estate will supply the planks.” Alick gave a curt nod in answer to Oliver’s glance.

  Gradually the group dispersed, by no means satisfied, but there was no further reason to stay. Alick’s adversary looked as if he would like to say more, but someone tugged at his sleeve and he went with the others. Eventually there was only himself, Alick, and the man who had volunteered to make the box left on the headland. Tentatively they lifted the sheet to assess the dimensions needed, and then the man departed.

  “Phew!” said Alick, when he was out of earshot. “That was nasty.”

  Oliver watched the group walk along the causeway in twos and threes, still locked in discussion. A pair of ravens passed overhead, crying out a protest of their own. “I don’t imagine we’ve heard the last of it.”

  “I should have stayed quiet.”

  “Yes. You should,” said Oliver, then squeezed his shoulder. “And one day soon, my free-thinking friend, you and I must talk. But for now let us see what damage your wretched brother has done.”

  He lifted the sheet from the bones and reviewed the sorry pile. Judging by the length of the leg bone, they were of a man, a tall individual, and Oliver moved them gently aside to look at where the skull lay, and offered it a silent apology.

  “There’s a leg missing,” said Alick, “or part of it anyway. Look—”

  He was right. The arm bones appeared to be all there, and the rib cage, with some ribs freshly broken, together with a multitude of small bones and two upper leg bones but only one lower one, much cut about and broken.

  “We can’t bury the poor beggar with half a leg missing, can we?” said Alick. “Must still be in the ground. I’ll take a look.” Alick’s spirits revived quickly, it seemed. He picked up the spade and, with an enthusiasm which made Oliver wince, began sifting through the sandy soil, digging into the remaining undisturbed patches. Oliver watched, biting his lip, as Alick came across other small bones which he set to one side. It really did feel like a desecration now, and his parishioners had every reason to be incensed. Thank God they had seen fit to depart.

  “Aha! It’s here.” Alick stopped digging and began pulling out a long bone.

  “Wait!” cried Oliver. “Get the soil off it and then follow it down. We need to collect the foot bones too.”

  “Righto.”

  This was appalling! But at least Alick had slowed down and was now using a flat stone to scrape away the surrounding deposit until he reached the bones of the foot. “Hand me something, will you, my hat’ll do.” And so the bones were decanted into the crown of Alick’s hat, and the matter descended into a black farce. Please God that none of the people returned! “You know what, I bet Mungo didn’t get the other foot either. I’ll have a look while I’m here.” Still in his crouched position, Alick began scraping again at the soil. Then— “Hello! There’s something else.”

  Oliver peered over his shoulder and saw what appeared to be a ring of metal some eight inches in diameter still buried in the soil. Despite himself, he felt a jolt of excitement. “Go carefully!”

  “Here, you’d better do it. I’m more of a bones man. I’ll shift over and keep looking for the other foot. Use this.” He pulled a penknife from his pocket.

  Oliver took it and began carefully scraping the soil away from the centre of the ring. Gradually it revealed itself to be a bowl of metal, the colour of dull steel, except he saw that it was not steel— He cleared the sandy soil from around it, following the edges down into the soil. Then his heart started to pound. His blade hit something partway down the outside of the bowl and he stopped—a protuberance of some sort, perhaps the setting for a precious stone. He continued clearing the soil from around it, and by the time he reached the point where the base of the bowl should be, he was certain what he was dealing with, and there indeed was the column of the pedestal, and below it the base.

  “I’ve got the other foot. Mungo’s a careless—” Alick pivoted on his heel but stopped as Oliver lifted the ancient chalice, for such it was, and held it up. For perhaps a thousand years it had lain there, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, finely wrought of silver, set with precious stones and trimmed with gold, a holy vessel which had once graced the altars of a re-emergent northern church. “My God!” said Alick.

  “My God, indeed,” said Oliver, and they both stood and stared at it.

  And then a sudden thought made Oliver’s hands tremble. He set down the chalice and straightened and went back across to the pile of bones and looked again at the skull. It lay where Mungo had placed it, staring back at him. He bent and, placing a hand on either side of it, gently lifted it, straightened, looked for a moment into the empty eye sockets, and then tilted the brow towards him.

  And he saw what Mungo had perhaps failed to notice or to understand, saw not the rounded intact cranium but fractured bone and a long clean cut, a wound such as that made by the descending blade of a heavy sword.

  Chapter 25

   Odrhan

  Odrhan grew anxious. Often he would find Ulla down by Hara
ld’s mound, her shawl clasped around her thickened form. Her time was fast approaching and he saw that she was frightened. Their only regular visitor now was old Morag, who came down to the shore to gather shellfish, and when he expressed his concern Ulla had raised a hand. “Morag will come to me. All is arranged.”

  He spoke again of Christ’s love and urged her to pray with him.

  “Your God did not save Harald,” she said, and Odrhan was consumed again with guilt and remorse.

  “I pray daily for his salvation,” he said, with truth, “and for your safe delivery.”

  But she had given him a cool look and addressed him as she had in the early days. “And if your prayers fail again, Odrhan, you must bury me with Harald, and I will take my chance with the old gods.”

   Libby

  The weather changed during the day and became overcast, the air heavy. Part of the survey equipment refused to work, causing frustrating delays, and although the mound, where work was being focussed, produced more bones, everything seemed to confirm that it had been heavily disturbed in the past. A few scraps of iron and two amber beads were the only other traces of the individual once buried there. The students, perhaps picking up on her mood, seemed downbeat too, wondering loudly how they would recharge their phones. Batteries for the laptop and survey equipment would become a concern as well; in planning the summer, she had thought she might ask Rodri for help in such matters, but that now seemed impossible.

  She was bent over the data recorder, swiping the midges away and cursing, when Rodri appeared, his face no less drawn, but he managed a smile. “How’s it going?” he asked, coming to stand beside her.