Paying the Piper

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Leath didn't suppose that Marchand was as complete an idiot as that. After all, he had managed to get Aberdeen University to sponsor him, and they had instructed him to appoint a Celtic culture person as advisor to the expedition. That was Leath. At twenty-nine, he had a degree in archaeology from Manchester and a dozen years' experience on excavations throughout England, Wales, and Brittany. The Banrigh dig would be his first in Scotland, but he didn't expect to see too many differences in the Celtic remains. They probably wouldn't be finding much, anyway, since all the old bampot wanted to do was measure stone circles and to prove his engineering theory. Leath didn't think Marchand could do much damage under those circumstances; in feet, he intended to make damn sure he didn't.

  Elizabeth MacPherson always visited a museum gift shop before she went round to see the exhibits. That way she didn't have to wonder about what gifts and postcards there would be to choose from, and there was no danger of losing track of time in an interesting exhibit and not having the opportunity to browse in the gift shop before it closed.

  Since only twenty minutes remained before the archaeological meeting, Elizabeth decided to spend it selecting postcards—while Cameron talked to Denny Allan, who had also come for the meeting. Or rather, she gave a convincing imitation of someone engrossed in choosing postcards; actually she was maintaining a careful surveillance of the meeting between Cameron and his old friend. They made an unlikely pair, she thought. Cameron was tall and serious and rather patrician-looking, and Denny could have modeled for a leprechaun poster. Watching them converse reminded her of a terrier racing and barking around a Great Dane. She had wondered a bit what Cameron would say about her, but he didn't seem to have much chance of getting a word in edgewise.

  Denny finally paused for breath after a long account of his troubles with the city street improvement department. He then asked, "So, what's it like in the States, Cameron?"

  "Well, they don't all drive like the Dukes of Hazzard," Cameron replied. "Some of the back roads are pretty primitive, though. I nearly got a rock through my windshield last month."

  "Windshield? Listen to yourself talking like them already! I suppose you say gas now, instead of petrol?

  "So would you if you wanted anybody to understand you!" Cameron retorted. He was already fed up with remarks about his accent, or the loss thereof. The unkindest cut of all had come in Bradford when a woman who had been chatting with Elizabeth asked where they were headed. When Cameron told her Edinburgh, she had assured him he'd love the city, and began to suggest places for him to visit. Cameron assumed his frostiest air of dignity and snapped, "I was borrn there!" He had been further annoyed when Elizabeth suggested that he should have heeded the woman's suggestions, because, in fact, he never had visited the Tollbooth, the Museum of Childhood, or John Knox's house.

  Deciding to change the subject before he lost his temper, Cameron thanked Denny for choosing Elizabeth to join the expedition.

  Denny grinned. "No problem! I'd have done it on vulgar curiosity alone. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I got your card. Imagine stuffy old Dawson the seal-man wanting his lady friend over for the summer!"

  Cameron didn't like the way this conversation was going, either. He noticed that Elizabeth had been examining the same four postcards for a considerable amount of time without turning the rack. "Yes, well, I'm sure she'll be an asset to the dig. She's quite knowledgeable about bones." Seeing the snappy retort forming on Denny's lips, he added hastily, "Dead people, I mean. Identifying remains. You know—skulls!"

  "Yes, but we aren't supposed to find any, Cameron. We're just measuring monoliths. Still, there's always the off chance, and she'd be a useful person to have around. Wish I could think of a way to bring one of my birds along. I take it we'll be seeing a lot of you these next few weeks as well?"

  Cameron shrugged. "A fair amount. I'll be monitoring a seal herd from Canna, and I'll have a skiff. I expect I'll come over to see you once a week if the weather holds.''

  "Well, don't expect too much privacy. It's a small island." Still grinning, Denny motioned for Elizabeth to join them. "I hear you're an anthropology student," he remarked. "Do you know what a seal-man is?"

  Elizabeth smiled. "A selkie? Only from the Joan Baez recording. 'I am a man upon the land; I am a selkie on the sea.'

  They are magic seal-people who take mortal form on dry land to—umm—to mate with human maidens."

  "Right. On the islands we'll be going to, they called them the Raoine. The legends are very similar. Just remember that unless you take away their skin, they always go back to their own kind eventually.''

  Elizabeth nodded. "I know," she said, looking at Cameron. "It's never quite safe to love a seal-man."

  CHAPTER

  4

  CAMERON

  Elizabeth is upstairs in her archaeology meeting, and I am left to wander about in the museum until she is finished. I feel as though I have been wandering about in a museum all these past ten days. Elizabeth seems to see Britain the way the rest of us see the stars: not as they are now, but as they were centuries ago when their light first shone out into space. When we look up into the sky, we see old light; and when she looks out the windscreen of our rental car, she sees the high road to Caledonia, I think. Elizabeth slept through the factories and the concrete mushroom cooling towers of the Midlands, to wake up in a cobblestoned village in Yorkshire, only a century too late for tea at the vicarage.

  She picked white heather in the twilight on Haworth Moor and quoted lines on star-crossed lovers from Wuthering Heights: "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same ..." But it seemed to me that another line on the page suited us more: ". . .as different as a moonbeam from

  lightning, or frost from fire." When she says she loves me, I can almost guess what she means. It isn't the steady cottage-and-children, tea-in-front-of-the-telly sort of affection she's after, but some sort of mythic ritual, fueled by the differences between us: accent and culture. When I speak, she hears not only my words, but also the sounds of Byron and Walter Scott and, for ail I know, the Bonnie Prince himself, and I wonder just which of us it is that she loves, and which myth she will finally choose for us.

  The enchantment followed us into the Eildon Hills of the Borders. She recognized the name from her folklore studies: it was home to Thomas the Rhymer. About eight centuries ago, as near as I could make out. Elizabeth told me the legend, looking out across the sweep of low green hills unchanged by the centuries. She never looked at the lorries rumbling past us up the motorway.

  Thomas of Ercildoune, she said (mispronouncing it), was an ordinary Scottish villager sitting in the forest one day, when the Queen of Elfland rode up on her white horse and carried him off to the fairy kingdom. A mysterious foreign woman and an ordinary Scot ... I could see where this was going . . . they rode through swirling mists and crossed a stream filled with all the blood that is shed on earth, and at last in Elfland she gave him an apple that granted him the gift of prophecy. He left her after seven years to return to his home in Ercildoune, but years later, while Thomas was attending a village feast, two white deer appeared at the edge of the forest, and he announced that they had come for him. Off he went and was never seen again. Back to the Queen of Elfland—to stay in her country forever after.

  She stole a glance at me when she finished the story. "Does his village still exist?" she asked. "Ercildoune?"

  "Earlston," I corrected her. "Oh, yes. The A68 goes right through it."

  Derek Marchand hunched over the conference table and inspected his troops. "Only six?" he said, with a puzzled glance at Denny Allan.

  "Yes, well, there is one more," Denny told him. "Callum Farming will be along on the dig, but he couldn't make the meeting. Prior appointment of some sort. He's a good fellow, though. Archaeology student from Inverness."

  Marchand looked as if he wanted to comment further on this early dereliction of duty, but he merely nodded. "Right, then, I'll begin. As you must know by no
w, I am Derek Marchand, and I'll be heading up this investigation, but the dig is actually financed by a grant from Aberdeen University. That is who will be paying your princely salaries."

  Sour smiles from the diggers. Archaeology pays less than lemonade stands.

  "I shall outline the purpose to you first, and then we'll get acquainted and go into the logistics of everything."

  Elizabeth wrote down logistics on her notepad, changing the last s to a drawing of a seal.

  "As you know, chambered tombs and long cairns are a part of Celtic culture found in much of western Europe, but only in Britain do we find the circular earthworks called henge monuments; that is, a deep ditch, a concentric outer bank, and entrance causeways through the ditch and bank." Marchand held up a diagram of a site resembling Stonehenge.

  "We are just beginning to examine this sort of monument. The Banrigh site, where we shall be working, is a great stone circle. You may think of it as a prehistoric Westminster Abbey, if you like. Actually we know very little about them: how they were built, or why."

  Tom Leath smiled at this. You know less about them than that, he thought. If we learn anything about the culture, it will be in spite of you.

  "Our purpose in the present phase of the dig is to attempt to discover the unit of measurement used by these ancient engineers. We will mark off the circle and measure it to see whether—as Alexander Thom has claimed—a megalithic yard was used to determine distances within the stone circle."

  "What about the island?" asked Alasdair McEwan in a bored voice.

  "Banrigh is a rather remote little island in the Hebrides. There were a few farms and a small village mere until early in this century, but the inhabitants are long since gone."

  Elizabeth looked up from her notes. "We won't be staying in tents, will we?"

  Marchand smiled. "I can tell by that American accent of yours that you're not accustomed to a Scottish summer," he said playfully.

  Elizabeth shivered. "Has there ever been one?"

  Denny laughed. "Actually, there is some sort of structure on Banrigh, isn't there?"

  Marchand nodded. "During the war, the island was used as a weather station for the North Atlantic fleets, and an army Nissen hut used by those chaps is still standing. It's a bit rusty, and the electricity's long gone, but it will serve to keep the rain off our backs.''

  Owen Gilchrist frowned. 'The island is deserted/

  "Another American accent," Marchand remarked. "Young man, we will be alone on Banrigh, but we will hardly be castaways. We will have a radio with us for emergency communications, and a marine biologist who will be working on an island several miles away has kindly offered to come in once a week and to bring in supplies."

  Elizabeth wondered if she were blushing at this oblique reference to Cameron.

  Owen did not look reassured. "But suppose one of us gets hurt?"

  "That, I think, will be my concern," said Alasdair with a condescending smile. "Archaeology is only my hobby. I'm a medical student at Edinburgh University."

  "And very kind of you to come along and look after us," said Marchand heartily.

  Tom Leath winced. He hoped the self-appointed doctor wouldn't turn out to be a prima donna. The expedition was too small to carry any dead weight in the crew.

  "Well, then, that seems settled. Is there anything else to be said before I get on to the technical part of our briefing?"

  Owen Gilchrist beamed across the table at his newfound comrades. "Would anyone like to have dinner with a vampire?"

  "You should have seen their faces!" Elizabeth grinned. "They must have thought he was completely crazy!"

  "Don't be too sure he isn't," Denny added. "But it does sound like a lovely evening, Cameron. Why don't we all go?"

  With counterpoint interjections Denny and Elizabeth explained Owen s invitation to experience one of Edinburgh s most unusual tourist attractions. First came dinner at nine at The Witchery, an elegant restaurant in an old building on the Royal Mile, just a few yards from the entrance to Edinburgh Castle. Owen had been so sure of everyone's enthusiasm that he had booked two tables.

  "And he would be awfully hurt if he had to cancel both of them," Elizabeth said.

  Cameron looked suspicious. "Who else is going?"

  Denny grinned. "Marchand and his assistant both pleaded prior engagements. It's probably true."

  "And I think the Danish girl wanted to come, but her doctor-boyfriend is a prig." Elizabeth sniffed. "He said he had some work to do before he could leave for the dig, and that the least Gitte could do for him would be to get his laundry ready and pack for him."

  "His bedside manner seems less than promising," Denny agreed.

  "I take it that we have already agreed to go in order to spare young Owen's feelings?" Cameron asked wearily.

  "Not at all," said Elizabeth. "We have agreed to go because I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

  "Dinner, she means," Cameron remarked to Denny.

  Elizabeth put out her tongue at him. "That wasn't what I was talking about. I want to see the vampire!"

  "Steady on!" said Cameron. "What vampire?"

  "It's a deceased highwayman, actually," Denny said. "Two young businessmen have come up with a splendid innovation in guided tours. They're leading the tourists all around the so-called Murder Walks of Edinburgh in an after-dark excursion."

  "Just the evening for a forensic anthropologist, I suppose?" Cameron asked. "Sort of a busman's holiday, Elizabeth?"

  Elizabeth nodded. "Not to mention all the favors you owe me for the auto-parts stores I've suffered through."

  "And this is how you want to spend your last evening in civilization? Trailing around after a vampire? You're sure?"

  Elizabeth grinned. '' A-positive!''

  CHAPTER

  5

  Elizabeth loved The Witchery. As soon as she entered the candlelit restaurant, with its white stone walls and its Halloween decor, she succumbed to an attack of folklore expertise and proceeded to wander around the room examining all the wall decorations and occult graffiti and explaining their significance to Cameron, Denny, and Owen.

  "The Pentagram, of course, is a symbol of protection. One is supposed to stand inside it when—"

  Denny grinned. "Let's order dinner—and hope she doesn't talk with her mouth full."

  "Anthropology major," Cameron said apologetically to the waitress, as he led Elizabeth away from the stuffed goat's head and back to their table. "What would you like for dinner, dear? Eye of newt? Toe of frog?"

  "This is a neat place!" Owen exclaimed. "I don't know much about medieval Scotland, though. Except for Sawney Bean."

  Cameron and Denny exchanged blank looks.

  "You've never heard of Sawney Bean?" Owen asked incredulously. "But you're from Scotland!"

  Cameron shrugged. "He didn't write seal monographs."

  "No, he was a cannibal."

  "And is he coming to dinner tonight as well?" Denny asked politely.

  While the waitress took their orders for venison and steak with peppercorns, Owen Gilchrist was silent, his sense of dignity struggling with his desire to show off. The latter won.

  Finally, staring into the candle flame for inspiration, he began in a ghost-story whisper. "Sawney Bean lived on the coast of Ayrshire in the fifteenth century. Travelers in that part of Scotland kept disappearing. They hanged an innkeeper, thinking he had been killing off his guests, but the disappearances kept on. Finally, a traveler got away!"

  Elizabeth ignored Cameron's stern look. It meant either "What an odd lot you archaeologists are!" or "What an odd lot you Americans are!" She didn't like shouldering responsibility for either group. After all, Cameron's friends wouldn't win any prizes, either. They talked forever about seal research and left dinner parties early to return home and feed their ferrets. For spite she gave Owen her most encouraging smile.

  Owen's face glowed in the candlelight as he described the wounded traveler making his way to the nearest town and reporting bei
ng attacked by a band of savages. A search party was formed to scour the countryside. "They found nothing," Owen said dramatically. "Until they looked in a cave that could only be entered at low tide."

  The waitress looked a bit disconcerted as she set the salad

  plates in front of them, but Owen was too deep in his recitation to notice. "When they entered the cave, they found Sawney, his wife, and a tribe of their children and grandchildren-by-incest, living among piles of stolen gold and jewels. Hanging from the roof of the cave were human arms and legs—like a smokehouse!"

  Denny set down his fork. "Well, that's done it for dinner." He sighed.

  "What happened to them?" asked Elizabeth.

  "They were taken back to Edinburgh and burned at the stake," Owen said. "Even in the fifteenth century they were considered subhuman savages."

  "Whereas burning them in public was mature and civilized behavior," Elizabeth said sweetly. She returned Cameron's stern stare, hoping that he would feel a collective responsibility for Scots of all eras, but it did not work. Cameron was not checking Sawney Bean into his emotional baggage.

  "You're an unusual sort of tourist," Denny remarked. "Even for an American. Most of them seem to have a Robert Burns fixation."

  "Or Macbeth," Cameron grunted.

  Owen flushed. "Murder is sort of a hobby of mine," he mumbled. "I'm not a kook or anything. I just like scary stories that happen to be true. The tour tonight should be great!"

  Cameron smiled faintly. "I’ve always thought of Edinburgh as a sleepy old lady. I'm sure this will provide a new perspective."

  Owen grinned. "She may be sleepy now, but she's had quite a past!"

  * * *

  For the rest of dinner the conversation proceeded along tamer lines. The three archaeologists discussed Marchand's lecture and details of the Banrigh dig. Owen was stunned to learn that neither of the two native Scots could help him at all in his efforts to learn to play bagpipes. Denny announced that he preferred the banjo, and Cameron disavowed all knowledge of music. Elizabeth said carefully that she didn't think it was necessary to practice too much in order to become a good player.