The Walrus Mutterer

by Mandy Haggith

  ‘What’re you looking so smug about?’ Maadu was sitting in the sunshine outside the broch.

  The shout broke Rian out of her reverie. She waved her hand at the cows and said nothing.

  ‘The pails aren’t scalded and the yearlings will be a menace. I don’t know what you were thinking of bringing them. And unless you bring the cows some more to eat they’ll be breaking out before you’ve milked them.’ The fat woman had clearly not had anyone to complain to for hours.

  Rian dimmed the damselfly sparks in her eyes and began the mental climb to the high crag where she was safe from verbal wounding.

  ‘May the Goddess preserve me from stupid slaves. Stupid and lazy. What have I done to be cursed like this? Get a move on, or I’ll have to take the whip to you.’

  Rian tried to hold onto the satisfaction of having brought the cows in from the hill, for which there would be no other thanks. She made a plan: water on the fire to heat for scalding pails, then a basket of grass to tempt the heifers and bullock away from the others. By the time she brought another basket of grass for the mothers the water would be boiling. Then the milking could begin. There were worse tasks. She would look bored and take her time, ignore the threats of violence and watch out for herbs to gather.

  Inside, rekindling the fire, she looked at the flint hanging on its hook and wondered.

  At midsummer Maadu was collected by one of her sons and she and Cuckoo went off to Clickimin for the solstice festivities, leaving the three slaves to fend for themselves. Gurda attempted to be in charge but although Fi and Rian made a token gesture of obedience towards the older woman, in reality anarchy prevailed and for two blissful days they did more or less what they desired. They gorged on milk until they were sick of it and sat revelling in Maadu and Cuckoo’s absence, putting more fuel on the fire than was necessary, doing nothing.

  Escape was, of course, what Rian most wanted but there was no boat. The coracle that she had been eyeing had been towed away behind the ship when Maadu left and it was too far to attempt to swim the channel to the mainland, although she considered it long and hard. She tried to content herself with gathering more herbs, but the weather was wet and drying them by the fire was not the best way of treating them. Mostly she kept away from Gurda and Fi and allowed her thoughts to play at the puzzle of captivity, exploring hypotheticals, mostly centred on the coracle. Now that it had gone, she was furious that she had not seen it for the lifeline that it was. When it returned she would use it, wait for a night-time when she was last to bed and sneak out and away in it across the Sound. And then what? Then she would need to find a way to avoid recapture.

  The two days were soon over. Rian was sitting at the broch door when a slim sailing boat approached from the north, a coracle bobbing in its wake. It anchored in the bay. People and goods were lowered into the little vessel and it was skulled ashore and emptied. The operation was repeated and a straggle of people made its way towards the stone tower. Maadu was first, huffing with the weight of a basket.

  Rian retreated around the back, taking refuge with the cows, but Gurda’s voice reached her there.

  ‘Carry, carry!’

  Rian fought the urge to hide. She was vaguely curious about what might have been brought that required carrying. She dragged her feet down to the boat where she was given a huge basket of cloth. On her next trip she helped to lug up one of a pair of low benches. Maadu wrapped them in skins and set them up proudly in her preferred spot inside with a commanding view of the door, close enough for easy reach of the fire, her back towards her bedroom between the walls of the building. There were also three piglets which were installed behind a willow hurdle barrier in a corner of the broch.

  Cuckoo was sulking and went straight to her room with a bundle of clothes. Presumably she had found life in Clickimin much more exciting than being stuck on the island with only her mother and slaves for company.

  Two men from the boat came onshore. One was another of Maadu’s sons. He was younger than the others she had seen, perhaps seventeen years old.

  The other was a man she recognised but could not place immediately. He was strolling up towards the broch when she passed him on her way down for more baggage and he showed no sign whatsoever of knowing her, but she looked sideways at him through her hair and remembered.

  He was the man who had thrown her to the ground when they had arrived at the Seal Isles, the cousin of the bronze smith and of Ussa.

  This was who Ussa was seeking, the one she claimed had stolen some precious stone from her.

  The one Badger called the Walrus Mutterer.

  Maadu’s son was ranting to him, pointing out the broch, the fields, as if trying to impress him. He was looking about in an affable way. There was a loose fluidity about his movements that made Rian want to straighten her back and instead of stomping, to glide. The men’s voices faded as they walked away. There were heavy loads of firewood to carry. The next time she passed him, when he was taking a look at the cows behind the broch, she was stooped under a back basket so heavy she could barely shuffle. After that, the pain of the burdens reduced her to a beetle-pushing-a-ball-of-dung emptiness. There were only footsteps and the basket on her back and her shrieking mistress complaining that she did not carry it quickly enough and its contents were being ruined by the rain.

  When it came time for preparation of food, Rian was given a quern and told to grind grain.

  Gurda was full of herself. She had been given a threadbare blanket, a cast-off from Cuckoo’s old bedding, but she wore it around her shoulders as if it was a new cloak of fine wool. ‘The boy Leven is off to hunt for walrus. This will be his last meal before goodness only knows how long at sea. A month, the man says, maybe, and no sight of land except for the place wherever it is they find those great beasts. Have you ground the oats yet? They’re hungry.’

  Rian increased the rate of the turning stone and watched the young man and his guest. They had taken up their positions on the new benches, one side each of a stone block, on which two cups of mead and a flask stood. The hunter held his cup close to the rim, lifted it to his lips, tipped his head back, tossed the remains of its contents into his mouth and swallowed. Leven refilled both beakers.

  Rian kept the rhythm of the grinding stone even, and the hunter raised his voice so everyone could hear him, even Cuckoo in her room.

  ‘This reminds me of the time I was in the broch of King Ban.’ He spoke with a sing-song lilt, in time with Rian’s turning stone. ‘I was told a story from long, long ago.’ His voice had an accent that was familiar to her, with soft ‘s’ sounds and rolling ‘r’s. Although it was the accent of one of the southern isles, it was still softer than the northern dialect, and it reminded her of home. She poured more grain into the quern and the story unwound out of him as if she was spinning it out by turning the stone.

  Maadu stopped rummaging in her baskets of cloth and turfed her son off his bench. He perched on a stool. All eyes were on the Walrus Mutterer as he spun his yarn.

  ‘A couple took over the living on one of the islands. There was a cow there who was docile and a good milker and she became part of their lives. She bore calves that were black and hairy and strong, and they in their turn bore young. The couple worked hard, making hay for the winter and tending the beasts. They ended up with a fine herd.

  ‘Well, the original cow didn’t get any younger, and one autumn night after a wet summer without much of a harvest, the man said that he doubted she would get through another winter so perhaps they should try to sell her on. His wife wouldn’t hear of that, so he suggested they might as well eat her as have to feed her from their meagre supply of fodder.

  ‘They sat by the fire and discussed what they would have to arrange. Killing and butchering a cow is not something you do lightly. Eventually they had a plan. The man said he would get up early in the morning and do the deed, and then they would have the whole day to prese
rve the meat with salt and smoke. They laughed together at the thought of the good meals they could look forward to over the winter.

  ‘But when he got up in the morning, the cow was nowhere to be seen. She was a good animal and normally she would lead the other cows in for milking. But as if she had heard what was planned she had made herself scarce, along with every single one of rest of the herd. He went looking and followed their fresh hoofprints out of the open gate of the inbye, down across the machair grass by the shore, onto the beach and into the sea.

  ‘They told an old neighbour what had happened.

  ‘“Well,” said she, “you know where that cow came from now.She wasn’t going to wait to get what you had planned for her. And when a cow from the sea returns to her homeland, she takes all of her offspring with her. You’ll not see any of them again.”

  ‘And they did not.’

  Manigan shook his head and smiled at his audience.

  ‘That’s a good one.’ Maadu turned to Rian. ‘Have you not done the milking yet?’

  Rain was teeming down outside. Rian stopped grinding and emptied the meal into a bowl, which she handed to Gurda. She stood up, making sure she didn’t look at Manigan and, holding his story inside her so its magic would not be broken, she took it out with her to the cows.

  The yard was slippery with dung and the cattle were grumpy and reluctant to be tethered under the shelter for milking. She fell down trying to catch one of them, bruising herself and getting filthy as well as wet. Fortunately, the milk pail stayed upright but she was soaked and miserable by the time the job was done and she could return indoors.

  Maadu and her guests were eating. The smell of fish was mouth-watering but Rian had no reason to suppose any of it would be left for them. She winced as she noticed the Walrus Mutterer wrinkle his nose at her dung-splattered state.

  Gurda gathered the plates and put the leftovers by the three slaves’ bowls. Rian was given the dishes to wash before she could eat and when she finally got the chance there was nothing left but a meagre scraping of green vegetables and the scorched end of a bannock. She retreated to a corner with her bowl as Maadu carved a big cake into four generous portions for herself, Cuckoo, Leven and their guest. Rian tried to listen in to the discussion of the hunting plan, but soon bored of Leven’s boasting about a fishing adventure earlier in the year.

  When Manigan made signs that it was time for him and Leven to leave, Cuckoo got up and tossed the remaining chunk of her cake to the pigs which jostled each other for possession until one scoffed it. Maadu tore her cake in half, pushed herself to her feet and more deliberately fed it to the piglets.

  ‘Won’t you stay the night?’

  ‘No, thank you. The boys are waiting and the tidal race should be helpful now.’ Manigan slapped Leven on the shoulder. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  Leven pointed to the bag of bread and cheese Maadu had offered them, and his sleeping roll wrapped in cow hide.

  ‘Blade?’ Manigan asked.

  Leven patted the sheath on his belt.

  ‘The makings for fire?’

  ‘What? Like a flint, you mean?’

  Manigan nodded. ‘Aye, you never know when you’ll need to make a fire.’

  Maadu settled herself back down in her chair. ‘Have a look in that toolbox in the corner.’

  Leven rummaged and unearthed a leather packet in which there were some flints.

  ‘They were your grandfather’s,’ Maadu said. ‘You’re welcome to take one.’

  Manigan was waiting by the door. ‘Are you fit? Time to put some water under us.’

  The young man grinned like a puppy.

  Then Manigan turned to Maadu. ‘You treat your pigs better than your people.’

  As if he were a stupid child, she replied, ‘They’re only slaves.’

  ‘They’re people.’ He shook his head. ‘That one there?’ He gestured at Rian with a frown but no apparent recognition. ‘Even under that filth there’s a person.’

  Maadu gave a short, scoffing laugh. ‘Stick to hunting, Manigan. And stories. You’re good at stories. And I know what I’m doing with my slaves.’ She turned to her son. ‘Are you ready? You’d better not keep your bleeding heart captain waiting.’

  Manigan had gone, but the person he had pointed at was left with the knowledge that there was at least a possibility that a sailor might be an ally. And so Rian’s plan took shape.

  Commodity

  Fragrant orchids came into flower with their impossibly sweet scent. Cuckoo picked every one she found and her corner of the broch was so full of the perfume it became cloying. Terns raised their chicks and flew training flights en masse, shrieking in long, racing formation down the shore then turning and hurtling back the other way. It was exhausting to watch. Rian knew that soon they would be gone and wished she could do more in the way of her own preparation for escape. She could not take to her wings, but when the opportunity presented itself to board a boat and fly away with sails for wings, she wanted to be ready.

  The first sunny day that Maadu and Cuckoo spent outdoors, and she was set to cleaning duties in the broch, she waited for a moment when Gurda and Fi weren’t watching and took the chance to find the flints that Leven had left in the toolbox. She took one and put it in amongst some kindling by the hearth, then waited to see if it would be missed. It wasn’t. A few days later, she moved it again out of the broch and into her hiding place in the wall beside the milking shelter.

  The days and weeks passed, an endless round of milking, weeding and drudgery. Every so often a passing boat would call in, but few stayed more than a mealtime, mostly pausing for the tide to take them favourably north or south, avoiding the roiling water of the Roost off the southern tip of the mainland. Rian heard several sailors speak of the tumult and everyone seemed scared of it.

  One day, a brisk easterly wind was blowing and the women were out in the field doing the last pass through the barley before it was harvested, taking out what few weeds remained. The wind had been mounting all day and it whistled and rattled through the tall corn which scratched Rian’s bare arms. Emerging at the end of a row she saw two boats in the Sound, one heading in towards the bay, having rounded the cape at the north end of the island. The other was sailing north making good speed. The first boat was setting an anchor.

  ‘Boat.’

  Gurda came to watch, then threw down her basket and marched off to the broch to tell Maadu.

  Rian watched the second boat reach the water beyond the shelter of the island where the waves were white topped, and then turn and beat its way into the bay. By the time the first boat had lowered and loaded a coracle, the second was preparing to anchor. Rian recognised it as Ròn, not least because of the white-coated figure at the prow. Her stomach churned and she retreated into the perfect invisibility provided by the barley.

  To remain unseen was only possible for a while because Maadu needed provision to be made for the visitors and Fi and Rian were shouted in from the field. Rian was sent to milk the cows and could be partly hidden behind a big hairy animal while she watched the new arrivals.

  The wind remained strong and the skippers of both boats had decided to ride out what may well prove to be a gale getting up. They would stay at anchor overnight. Both boats had passengers or crew who preferred to sit it out in the comfort of the broch rather than afloat. The first boat was a whaler. Three men, all relatives of Maadu or the Chieftain, came ashore from it. From Ròn, five people made their way to the broch. Ussa had clearly acquired more crew as there were still several people on board.

  As the shore party approached, Rian recognised, along with the trader, the striding form of Pytheas with his staff and box, and the heavily loaded frame of Og. Still by the shore two figures, one large and one small, were organising a large amount of baggage. Cuckoo ran down and made an animated welcome. As they turned to greet her, Rian realise
d it was Gruach the bronze smith, and Fraoch. A buzz of hope in her chest was soon swallowed by the shame of her dirty state and she shifted around to hide herself behind the hairy anonymity of the cow.

  She managed to avoid going into the broch where she could hear the voices of Ussa and Pytheas, but Cuckoo sought her out and fold her she must carry water to the smith.

  Cuckoo had some hot pancakes to offer them and set off ahead of Rian down to the shore. When Rian appeared with two pails of water, Cuckoo looked most surprised when Fraoch shouted ‘Rian!’ Her arms reached out to hug her in delight. Rian hung back but as Cuckoo chatted on, she met Fraoch’s gaze.

  The bronze smith’s daughter seemed older somehow. Questions flowed silently, a long frown and a sigh that Rian heard as compassion but might just have been the natural sound of someone taking a rest from work. Gruach stood up from the fire he had lit, hands on his waist and looked at her, then interrupted Cuckoo.

  ‘Well, Rian. How are you?’

  She tried to give him a smile, but couldn’t speak.

  ‘You look…’ Fraoch paused, as if thinking what to say, and settled on, ‘thin.’

  Rian wasn’t sure how to respond.

  ‘Do you live here now?’

  Rian gave a little nod and glanced at Cuckoo, who seemed to be relaxed about her speaking, even interested.

  ‘Ussa sold me to the Chieftain.’

  Fraoch looked blank.

  ‘The Chieftain. This is his wife’s house.’