The peat reek fought against the overpowering smell of rotting seaware lying in dark patches on the beach a couple of metres from them. Maybe that was the smell Reinya meant.
‘Peat,’ Scud said again. ‘A form o’ carbon capture, decayed vegetation. For centuries the fuel o’ our ancestors.’ He sniffed deeply. ‘In the olden days Island natives cut uniform squares from the earth about so big.’ He held out his hands to make a rectangle about ten centimetres wide. ‘Communities worked together tae cut them, it was hard but willing work.’
Reinya rolled her eyes. ‘What’s with the ‘istory lesson?’
‘They dried them then stored them in stacks tae burn on their fires for heat and cooking.’ He sniffed again. ‘So where have you brought us, Dawdle?’
Ishbel consulted her communicator and pushed it toward Dawdle. ‘Why are we so far west? According to the coordinates we’re in sector U. Uninhabited. Even the penitentiary was abandoned because it was too difficult to defend on the flat terrain.
‘Shush, listen.’ Dawdle placed a hand on her good arm. She shook it off still puzzled with the coordinates, it didn’t make sense. They were supposed to be heading north, taking a shorter route through the Minch.
An eerie sound swamped the night air. Singing, lilting, almost a chant in some strange tongue.
‘Aliens,’ Reinya said. ‘Your communicator’s porking. You’ve landed us on another planet.’
‘You watch too many movie-casters wee hen,’ Dawdle hissed. ‘But creepers, what is that?’
‘Singing,’ Ishbel said.
As the sound moved closer Dawdle pushed them further into the crack between two rocks. Ishbel picked out another sound accompanying the singing; a metallic creeching sound. She cocked her head to get a better look.
Dawdle gently pulled her back. ‘Dinnae move and dinnae say onythin until we’re sure.’
‘Of what?’ Reinya asked.
‘Ah dinnae ken.’
Light lingered on the horizon but the four were already in darkness. Ishbel crawled forward and batted away Dawdle’s restraining arm, she had to be sure. She pulled on her night vision. A dozen or so native men and women traipsed towards their hiding place. Two or three dragged a rusted old trailer along the beach and it was from this that the screeching howled from. The others used longforks to hook and toss the seaware into the cart. The rhythm and movement of the cart and the pitching worked in perfect time to a hypnotic song. Ishbel began to hum along and sway with the rhythm until Dawdle placed his grubby hand over her mouth and pulled her back for the second time. Pain exploded through her shoulder, she spat bile in the sand while the others watched the procession pass and continue along the beach that seemed to stretch for kiloms.
‘Ah’m sorry,’ Dawdle whispered.
Ishbel raised her head. ‘Why did you stop me?’
‘Because we need tae suss the set-up.’
‘They’re just natives collecting seaware.’
‘Aye, a shit lot o’ seaware.’
‘And I suppose you’ve already worked out the price on it.’
He grinned at her. ‘It’s the way ah’m wired, Ish, ah cannae help it. Wired fur profit.’
‘If we can smell their fires,’ Scud said, shivering in his wet clothes, ‘they must have dwellings close by.’
‘Uh’m starving. Will they huv food?’ Reinya asked.
‘Possibly,’ Scud replied.
‘Uh wasn’t talking to you.’
He slunk back, stung. Ishbel wanted to slap her. This child, although a native and from a different upbringing, reminded her so much of Sorlie – always starving and hard coded to whine.
She hunted in her pocket and brought out a crumpled and soggy grain bar. A throwback from her domestic days never knowing when her charge would utter those famous two words, ‘I’m starving.’
‘Here have this. I’m sure we’ll find food soon.’
‘What if we don’t?’
‘Shut up,’ Ishbel snapped.
Dawdle put his hand on her arm, she winced.
‘Sorry, Ish. We’ll need tae get that fixed.’
‘Stop saying sorry,’ she growled. He grinned toward Reinya.
‘Dinnae you worry yersel, wee hen. Ah bet ah can find ye something tae eat.’
‘Uh’m frozen.’
‘S’truth, will you shut it with the whining.’ Ishbel said but then she heard Scud’s teeth chattering louder than the trailer wheels. She bit her words and said. ‘No, Reinya’s right, we need to find cover.’
‘Aye, it’s a bit cauld right enough,’ Dawdle placed his hands on the older man’s shoulders to stop him shaking. ‘Do’ye know what? Ah bet ah can get us somewhere warm and dry right now.’
‘How?’
‘Noiri code o’ practice. And ah reckon it works everywhere even on deserted islands.’
‘This island isn’t deserted,’ Reinya chirped, she was civil to at least one person in the party.
‘Even better. Ah’ll just nip up here and huv a wee shuftie, there’s still enough light. Yous stay right here.’ He bounded up the sand dunes and out of sight.
Ishbel blew out a small whistle through her teeth and sat down, conscious of the big gap between Reinya and Scud. She wanted to place her arms around them both, draw them to her but couldn’t.
‘Huddle into him,’ she coaxed. Reiyna made to move away, Ishbel reached out to grab and was swept in agony. She spat again and gulped back pain.
‘Steady, Ishbel,’ Scud said. ‘Look hen,’ he said to Reinya, ‘we’ll be warmer if we stay close. That’s simple survival training and you know it.’ She yielded then.
It took a while for Ishbel to quell her nausea and the stench both former prisoners effused didn’t help. ‘One day you’ll be warm and dry and clean again,’ she said through her own chattering teeth. At least they were free. Well, almost. Although she’d been a domestic all her life she had had a kind of freedom being in the service of her sister and brother-in-law. These two she now huddled next to her had suffered unspeakable horrors. Reinya would have had to live in a vermin-riddled ship, where communal suffering was part of the punishment. She’d watched her mother die. Ishbel needed to remember that.
Dawdle jumped over the rock and landed in the sand throwing it up over the huddled trio.
‘Guess what?’
‘What?’ said Ishbel, humouring.
‘Ah wis spot on.’ He reached down and dragged Scud to his feet. Reinya was already on his heels.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Come on, wait and see.’
‘Just tell us,’ Reinya shouted. Ishbel could have sworn she stamped her foot.
‘Shush,’ Ishbel said. ‘We still don’t know where they are.’
Dawdle led them, struggling and fighting the shifting sands, over the dune. Ishbel stumbled, put a hand out to save her damaged shoulder. Marram grass cut her like a blade. Something dark lurked out there in the dune. A shape out of place in the landscape, manmade.
‘Can ye see it?’ Dawdle couldn’t contain his excitement. When they got closer Ishbel started to laugh.
‘It’s a white van.’ Except it wasn’t white, it was grey and rusted and smeared with age.
‘Too true it’s a white van.’ He beamed with pride. ‘And where dae ye think white vans go tae when they eventually die?’
‘Eh, the white van cemetery,’ now she really was humouring him.
‘Naw. They’re carted off tae specific places with some provisions for just such a troubled crew as we four are.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Nut. Ah told ye it’s the Noiri code o’ practice but only the Noiri ken aboot it. It’s a secret.’
In a world of no secrets, Ishbel was stunned. She’d never heard of such things. Everyone knew of her mother’s cells around the world, not their wher
eabouts but their existence, but this was a phenomenon.
Dawdle tugged the door with a flourish but it wouldn’t budge. He cleared remaining glass from a panned in side window. The nippy smell of urine wafted through. The windscreen was cracked and the cab sagged on one axle. Dawdle wriggled through the broken window and kicked out the back doors.
‘What a mess, what a stink,’ Ishbel said, holding her nose. Shredded bedding scattered on a carpet of vermin droppings.
‘Oh great, a ‘eap o’ shit and stuffing,’ Reinya complained, but Dawdle ignored them as he kicked the debris out the door with the edge of his boot. From the gold chain he wore round his neck, he produced a small wire and poked it into a tiny hole on the floor. A cover popped up to reveal a hidden compartment. He sat back on his heels to enjoy the marvel on everyone’s faces.
‘Telt ye? Eh?’ He pulled out two sleeping bags and threw them at Scud. Next he produced a small gas canister which he laid by his knee, a few rusty tins and an empty water bottle.
‘There’s bound tae be a stream nearby.’
‘How d’you know?’ Reinya asked.
‘There always is.’
Scud held a bag out to Reinya but she blanked him. Dawdle took it and gave it to her. ‘You need tae wise up young lady. Get in there and get warm.’
‘You and me’ll need tae cuddle up, Ish,’ he grinned. She ignored him as she hugged the gas canister between her knees and assembled the stove one-handed. ‘Go get some water then we can have a brew.’
‘That’s a no then?’ He faked a hurt voice. ‘And what about a wee “thank you Dawdle for bringing us tae these gifts”.’
‘Thanks, Dawdle, now get water.’
‘First ah’ll sling yer arm,’ he said, holding up a first aid kit.
‘What ah don’t get,’ Scud said when Dawdle had gone, ‘Is why the locals didn’t take this stuff.’
Ishbel shrugged. ‘Search me, we’ll need to ask Dawdle when he comes back, he seems to know all about this place.’ Too much to be a coincidence, but she stored that thought.
He was only minutes away when he came bounding back. ‘There’s a spring, a nice one, wee bit on the peaty side but braw.’ He handed over the bottle, ‘Here take a sip, Scud,’ but the mutant was already asleep, laid out like an Egyptian mummy.
‘When wis the last time he munched, Ish?’
‘A while, but let him rest.’
‘He’s gettin worse.’
‘What’s wrong with ‘im?’ Reinya asked Ishbel.
‘I’m not sure, he might need a chemical top-up to stabilise his condition. He hasn’t had any since he left the prison.’
‘So what’s going to ‘appen to ‘im?’
‘We need to get him help, to our base, hopefully Kenneth can help.’
‘Who’s Kenneth?’
‘The one who started all this.’ Ishbel turned away from the girl. She was too tired to explain that twenty years ago Kenneth had been one of the scientists working on the DNA dilution project. The original architect before the State decided to use the discovery for sinister means, before Kenneth became a native outcast.
After a feast of tinned beans and brew they tried to sleep. Despite the painkillers Dawdle found for Ishbel in the stash, waves of pain continued to wash over her. But she must have slept because she woke to morning light just as Dawdle was climbing back into the van.
‘Where have you been?’
He held a finger up to his lips. ‘Shhh. Come and have a look at this.’ They squeezed past the sleeping pair and left the fusty van into a crisp clean morning. No rain fell but a definite moisture misted the air. Rain wasn’t far off. They walked towards the beach. The sun rose behind them, casting a delicate red glow on the machair. The tide returned to wash away the tracks from the seaware harvest and replaced them with more food from the sea. The moist breeze caught Ishbel’s hair, washing her face with soft mizzle.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said and felt a true smile on her lips, not that supplicant native smile that had been trained into her from birth.
‘Aye it is,’ Dawdle said as he gently turned her injured body round to face him. ‘But look the other way.’
She looked over his shoulder. There was a broad opening through the dunes, exposing the inland. The island stretched out flat and green with brown patches, rugged and solid with gut-twisting familiarity. Small lochs shimmered in the distance, puddling the landscape and a couple of hills jutted in defiance of the flatlands.
Dawdle pointed to green mounds a short distance from the beach. Small dunes with more marram grass than the ones closer to the shore.
‘What?’
‘Look closer,’ he urged.
Ishbel narrowed her eyes. She sniffed the peat smoke and then she saw wisps escaping from small black slits in the grass. Smoke puffed from the grass dispersing into the wide open sky.
‘What?’ She turned wide eyed to Dawdle who nodded like an ancient sage.
‘Aye, last night’s natives live closer than we thought. We must have practically tripped over them on the way tae the van. That’s a Souterrain, an underground dwelling, and so well hidden it can only mean one thing.’
‘Outcast natives?’ She said. Dawdle nodded.
‘What do we do?’ Ishbel tasted blood on her bitten lip, wiped it with her finger and cursed her weakness. ‘We risk it,’ she said answering her own question. Scud needed help, Satan’s truth, they all needed help.
Dawdle nodded. ‘Agree.’
The temperature was mild now they were sheltered from the shore breeze. The peat smoke seemed to absorb the moisture in the air, turning its normal acrid smell into something sweet and nutty. The fact fires were lit told them the community was up and about although none were visible.
They approached a door in the hillside, an ‘Open Sesame’ of sorts.
‘We’ll knock.’
Ishbel nodded, her throat too dry to speak. Dawdle knocked once, paused, knocked twice as he raised his fist a third time Ishbel caught his arm.
‘A bit over the top. Yes?’ She said. He shook off her hand and held a restraining arm to bar her from the door then knocked once more. Ishbel shoved him.
‘What’s your game?’ It was a signal, she wasn’t thick.
The door remained closed. Ishbel felt her anger rise at Dawdle and the door. She was about to suggest they try somewhere else when a hood enveloped her. As her hands and feet bound her like a smokie she screamed in torture.
‘Watch…’ she heard Dawdle shout before she passed out.
One person carried her but she sensed the presence of others. She felt suddenly sheltered from the wind and her searing pain had disappeared. There was a sound of shuffling, an occasional cough. Her carrier ducked and tipped her body then a warmth suffocated her. They had entered the house; she coughed on the smoke, the dense air.
The rough hood scratched her face, the bindings bit her hand and wrists, her shoulder injury stoonded like a stubbed toe but was nothing to what she had before.
‘Dawdle,’ she shouted, though her voice was muffled. Something hard dunted her head. A hand?
‘Just you wait, Dawdle.’ She was hit again, harder this time, so she stayed schtum.
Where was he? She had no fear now, if they’d wanted to kill her they would have by now. She was a native, not worth kidnapping. As long as they didn’t know she was Vanora’s daughter she should be OK. How could they know that? Then the memory of Dawdle’s door knock niggled.
She bum-shuffled to sitting. A cold hard surface chilled her back, a solid wall, ridged and rough but at least it was a lean. She dragged her knees to her chest, waited and listened. There was a hiss and heat from a fire somewhere nearby and a small whispering, a male voice speaking the guttural tone of her native tongue. A language banished from Lesser Esperaneo around the time of her birth, but heard last night in the lyri
cs of the seaware gatherers. A hard knot lodged in her throat, a great sadness, the mythical cianalas swept through her like a ghost. There was another sound close by, the familiar rhythmic thud, the unmistakable smell of oats, the thud of the spurtle against the porridge pot.
Where the hell was Dawdle? She counted off minutes with the thud of the pot. Every now and again she heard the thump change tone, and a whispered, ‘Tapadh leat.’
Her stomach rumbled so loud she was sure the cook must have heard it.
‘Ciamar a tha thu?’ she whispered. The thumping stopped. She said it again
‘Gu math’ was the masculine reply.
Result. But she wished she too could say she was ‘good’. The thumping did not resume, near silence filled the room. She was sure he had left when she felt the hood loosened and eased from her neck. Ishbel squeezed her eyes tight in preparation for blinding light but she was in semi-darkness. She narrowed her eyes trying to make out shapes. Before her stood a young woman of about her own age. Her hair was black as were her eyes in this gloom.
‘Thank you,’ Ishbel said in Gaelic.
‘You speak our language.’
‘Yes, I’m from the exile lands.’
The woman nodded. Behind her a male approaching senior age peered at her. His hair and beard were grey and both were tied in knots. Once he seemed satisfied with her face he returned to thumping his porridge pot, his gummy mouth worked as if in silent protest to the intrusion.
‘Where’s Dawdle?’
The woman tilted her head to one side as if listening to something, then indicated with her head to a stone pillar, but all Ishbel could make out was dark shadow. She was positioned in the outside edge of a large, stone, circular building with walls separating rooms like spokes in a wheel and the peat fire and the hearth as its nucleus. The swee, an apex frame above the fire, held the cauldron tended to by the knotted man.
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