Paying the Piper

by Sharyn McCrumb

  She missed Cameron already. She stood for several minutes on the cliff above the rocky cove, trying to catch a glimpse of the small white boat among the whitecaps, but it never appeared.

  Suddenly, a moving square of red on the shore caught her attention. It was Denny, walking along the water's edge, examining shells.

  "Hey!" she yelled. "How did you get down there?"

  Denny looked up and waved. He pointed to an outcrop of rocks a few hundred yards along the cliff. Elizabeth hesitated. She ought to be heading in the other direction, but then it occurred to her that brine would be an even better disinfectant than fresh water, so she waved back at Denny and hurried along the path at the edge of the cliff.

  A natural way down the cliffs, probably improved by the original inhabitants of the Nissen hut, was still discernible,

  although crumbling rocks and sudden zigzags indicated that it had not been used for many years. Elizabeth, who did not quite trust her running shoes for mountain climbing, took a long time to pick her way down through the rocks, holding on to a jutting boulder as often as she could on the descent. Finally, she reached the bed of smooth pebbles that constituted the so-called beach of Banrigh's western side.

  "Where have you been keeping yourself?" Denny asked. "I thought Cameron had taken you away with him."

  "No such luck," said Elizabeth. "I've been helping Gitte clean our living quarters."

  "And you'll be fixing dinner, then, soon, I suppose?" asked Denny with a look of careful innocence.

  Elizabeth paused long enough to count to ten before answering. "I suppose I could," she replied. "And after dinner we can draw up the chart to see whose turn it will be tomorrow.''

  Denny laughed. "So you're not just a girlfriend along for the ride?"

  "No," Elizabeth said, "I'm not. I don't know much about British archaeology, but I've had enough experience back home, and I intend to learn a lot while I'm over here." She looked around at the wall of rocks behind them and at the ripples of water splashing gently on the pebbles. "Which reminds me. What are you doing down here?"

  Denny shrugged. "Just messing about, I suppose. Getting the lay of the land. I've proved Cameron wrong already. There was a seal here when I came down. Cute little bugger, sunning himself on a rock near the shore. I didn't scare him off, either. I think he left to go fishing."

  "I hope he comes back," Elizabeth said. "I haven't seen a seal before. Except in zoos, I mean. Never out in the wild."

  "Really?" said Denny. "I thought they were quite common out in California.''

  "Everything is quite common out in California!" Elizabeth quipped. "I happen to be from Virginia."

  "Well, if the seal turns up again, I'll give you a shout," Denny promised.

  "Yes, we ought to tell Cameron about him."

  "Something tells me he'll find out on his own," Denny said. "The beastie was wearing a wee black collar around his neck."

  Owen had found Alasdair walking alone on the cliffs and had tagged along, despite the pointed lack of an invitation to do so. "This is a very dramatic place!" he remarked. "It could be any century at all, couldn't it?"

  "I suppose so," Alasdair said politely.

  "And with such a bloody history!"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Violent, I mean," Owen corrected himself, suddenly remembering what his original adjective meant in Britain. "Viking sea raids! Druid sacrifices! Imagine the ghosts that must walk these hills!"

  Alasdair summoned up a frosty smile. "I hardly think it was quite the pageant that you imagine. I rather think it was countless years of tedium, of dull little nobodies scratching out an existence on a seabound rock, stinking of peat smoke and sheep shite."

  Owen blinked at this outburst, He was not sure what shite was, but he rather thought it must be what it sounded like.

  "But surely you're interested in their way of life," he stammered.

  "Not particularly,'' said Alasdair, walking faster. "I think the common man has always been pretty much the same, from Babylon to Bearsden. What interests me are those who take charge of the common man. The leader for whom the great tomb is built, for whom the gold is fashioned into ornaments."

  Owen nodded. "That's just how I feel about murderers! I mean, money isn't the only measure of a powerful person. Murderers are usually highly intelligent, and they're trying to get out of adversity by following their own rules. They're crazy, of course," he added, seeing the look on Alasdair's face.

  "You haven't much of a sample to judge from, have you?'' Alasdair smiled. "Since you can only judge by the ones who were caught. And who knows what percentage that is? By definition, the very best of the breed are never considered at all."

  Owen shrugged. "Well, maybe a few were just caught by bad luck, but in general I guess you're right. I'd say the guy who killed Keenan in Edinburgh was a leader type. Imagine killing someone in front of a whole alleyful of witnesses!"

  "Well, it was dark, wasn't it?" Alasdair pointed out. "Not much risk there, considering the slow reflexes of the average person in shock. Still, that's only rebellion on a small scale, in our tight little society of today. They're hardly worth your obsession. The true rebels lived centuries ago, when you could level whole kingdoms, not just individuals. When murder was a privilege of the elite, and no one questioned it. I hope that we will find evidence of such a great one here."

  "I don't think there were any big shots here on Banrigh,'' said Owen, scratching his head. "Skye, maybe."

  Alasdair pointed to the standing stones, shining red in the slant of the evening sun. "Somebody who was somebody was here."

  CHAPTER

  9

  By ten o'clock the sky was a sheet of copper, streaked with thin black clouds against the silhouettes of the mountains. The diggers had taken their dinner plates outside, where they sat on the rocks watching the sunset.

  "Nature's fireworks!" Marchand said, waving his fork at the sky.

  Owen shoveled a heaping forkload of rice into his mouth. "What is this stuff?"

  "Chicken curry," said Denny. "Invented by the Indians, but cooked by the Danes, I believe."

  Gitte smiled. "I enjoy to cook," she said.

  Elizabeth, who had done at least half of the preparation of the meal, noticed the conspicuous lack of credit given to the American contribution, but she decided that it was not worth mentioning, since dinner had turned out to be considerably less of a production than she had expected. The provisions for the expedition consisted almost entirely

  of packets of dehydrated stews and curries, to which one added water, and which were then heated in a saucepan on the camp stove. Elizabeth decided that it didn't really matter who did the cooking, since it was hardly any bother at all. Even so, she would have preferred not sharing the task with Gitte. The cooking was nothing; listening to Gitte run on about Alasdair's preferences in food and the restaurant they went to on his birthday—that was a chore! She considered asking Denny to help her with future meals, but as soon as she thought of it, she realized that she would never get this plan past Gitte. No meal would be prepared except under Gitte's supervision—with all credit going to her. If Marchand was the father of the expedition, Gitte seemed determined to be the mother.

  "Can we get any news on the radio?" Elizabeth asked Callum.

  Callum Farthing laughed. "It isn't that kind of radio," he told her. "It's just for sending messages over a distance of a few miles. Something like your CB in the States."

  "Besides," Gitte said, "it is very late, and we should all go to sleep now so that we can begin working early tomorrow." She began to gather up the plates.

  Elizabeth sighed. "Is it very far from here to Cameron's island?" she asked Denny.

  He shrugged. "In comparison to what? You saw how long it took this afternoon. Why do you ask?"

  "I was thinking of swimming it."

  Although the sky was cloudy, it was already well past dawn by seven o'clock. By then the camp was stirring. Gitte had taken the water bucket with
her when she went to the burn for her morning ablutions. Shortly after her return she had managed to wake everyone up—with a combination of coffee smells and a rendering of "Blowin' in the Wind," in Danish and off-key. Breakfast was powdered eggs and stewed tomatoes, and Elizabeth was glad to let Gitte have the credit for its concoction.

  "Do we have any marmalade for this bread?" asked Denny, eyeing the untoasted lump on his plate.

  "There's something in a jar on the table," Elizabeth replied. "Shall I get it?"

  "Hold it!'' Owen called after her. "Was it an old mayonnaise jar with no label? I thought so. That's not to eat. It's a honey-and-wax mixture. For my bagpipes," he added, seeing the others' puzzled expressions.

  "You feed your bagpipes?" Elizabeth asked.

  "That's exactly what it's called!" Owen said eagerly. "Feeding the bagpipes! The inner bag is leather, and you have to keep it lubricated so that it won't crack and split."

  "Can't you just use saddle soap?"

  "No. There are commercial preparations that you can use nowadays, but the traditional treatment has always been honey and hot wax. I thought, being an archaeologist and all, I'd like to stick with tradition."

  Denny nodded. "Stick with tradition, indeed. So you're going to pour this gunk down your bagpipes?''

  "Tonight after dinner."

  "And then I suppose you won't be able to play them for ... oh ... at least a week?" Elizabeth said hopefully.

  "They should be okay by tomorrow."

  "Here is your marmalade, Denny." said Gitte. Holding out a small white jar. "I brought some myself." She smiled triumphantly at Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth smiled back with equal warmth. "How very clever of you," she said.

  As they finished their coffee, Tom Leath outlined the plans for the day. "We're going to do background work," he explained. "This site has never really been studied, so the more we find out about this island, the better off we'll be. I want soil samples taken—that's you, Alasdair—not only from the stone circle, but also from the peat, the field of heather, and so on. Check for chalk dust, outcroppings of rock—anything we ought to know about."

  "Right," Alasdair said. "I know the drill. And I'll work alone."

  Leath ignored this remark and the hurt look that crossed Gitte's face. "And, Denny, you need to take the surveying equipment up the mountain and give us some general plans of the site."

  "Can I poke about a bit while I'm up there?" Denny wanted to know.

  "Not today," Marchand said. "We need the overview before we go on with the main focus of our project."

  "Okay." Denny nodded. "It'll keep."

  "What will keep?" Elizabeth whispered.

  "Callum, you'll be doing the photography, of course," Leath told him. "We need some shots from above, from where Denny is surveying, but also close shots of the circle itself from various angles. Marchand and I will be walking around the island looking for other signs of the culture of the circle builders. Grave sites, a brock . . . whatever.''

  "What about me?" Elizabeth asked.

  "You'll be digging an exploratory trench just beyond the circle itself. Go down a few inches by shovel, and then trowel. We want soil layers, evidence of chalk. Bones if we're lucky."

  "Gold bracelets if we're really lucky," Denny called.

  "Gitte can help you," Leath continued.

  "Oh, no!" Elizabeth said too quickly. "I don't need any help at all!"

  After a short, embarrassed silence Denny spoke up again. "I could use a hand with the surveying, then. Somebody needs to note down the figures and all that. I'd be glad of your help, Gitte."

  She smiled and nodded. "Yes, Denny, of course."

  Elizabeth felt guilty again. I suppose I ought to beg her pardon, she thought, but then I'd feel guilty for lying.

  "What about me?" Owen asked plaintively.

  "Not forgotten," said Leath, consulting his notes. "You're to have a look at that monolith on the wee island offshore. Just find out all you can. Whether the rock matches the stone circle; type of soil; angle in relation to the circle . . . Any questions?"

  Owen frowned. "I didn't see a boat. Did you see a boat?"

  "There's supposed to be an old rowboat beside the hut here."

  "Where?" Owen asked.

  "Right," said Leath. "Gilchrist, your assignment is to find the bloody rowboat. Any other questions?"

  "Just one." It was Denny. "What time is lunch?"

  The morning passed quickly for Elizabeth. She had someone to talk to for most of the morning. First, Alasdair appeared with his auger and plastic bags to collect the first in his series of soil samples.

  "Yours is an interesting job," she told him. "You might find all sorts of things buried here."

  Alasdair smiled. "Perhaps you're thinking of metal detectors," he said. "I'm just differentiating between loam and sand—that sort of thing."

  Elizabeth reddened. "Yes, I know about soil sampling," she told him. "I'm getting a master's in forensic anthropology, and we find soil analysis useful. I was thinking that you might find evidence of, say, human sacrifice in the soil. Like the bog people in Scandinavia."

  Alasdair smiled. "I doubt there were any ritual burials in this peat bog. I suppose it would preserve the bodies well enough because of the high acidity and natural formalin, but I'm not likely to stumble across anything spectacular on a random soil sampling. I doubt that we shall find anything at all dramatic here. I fear we'll dash the hopes of your fellow countryman."

  Elizabeth sighed. "Owen is a bit gung ho, isn't he? He's very new at archaeology, and I'm afraid he's based his impressions on Raiders of the Lost Ark.''

  "This should set him to rights, then," said Alasdair, emptying the core of soil into his plastic bag. "I'm sure I shall find nothing more exciting than a few dead sheep."

  By the time Callum had finished the overhead photographs of the stone circle, taken from the path on the mountain, Elizabeth had begun to trowel away the soil in her trench, a few millimeters at a time.

  "Am I in your way?" she asked as he adjusted the focus of his camera.

  "Not yet. Want a picture of yourself with the circle behind you?"

  Elizabeth touched her hair, which had been thoroughly tangled by a morning of sea winds. "What do I look like?"

  Callum looked up from the viewfinder. "Very American," he told her.

  Elizabeth frowned. "You're the one with a camera around your neck."

  "The sweatshirt's a dead giveaway. Very collegiate."

  "Oh, the outfit," Elizabeth said. "That's what everybody wears on digs. I always thought I looked sort of Celtic, though, with my dark hair and blue eyes."

  Callum shrugged. "I suppose so. I always think of them as redheads, myself."

  Since Callum himself had bright red hair, Elizabeth decided that this was a form of projection and that it didn't bear arguing about. She put down her trowel and posed in front of the largest stone of the circle. She turned her profile to the camera and stared out to the sea with what she hoped was a brooding expression. She tried to capture the mood of an ancient Celt by imagining one of the Highland legends: crashing breakers turning into demon horses to carry away drowned sailors; a young girl waiting for a ship that never comes; an island woman watching the empty sea for her selkie lover . . .

  "Now how do I look?" she asked Callum, trying not to move her lips.

  He shrugged. "Dunno. Bit like one of those perfume commercials, I s'pose. The ones that try for a mood instead of bludgeoning you with the product. What would you be selling? Old Spices for Ladies, if there is such a thing. Or some wild West scent. Old Cowhide?"

  "You Scots are a romantic lot!" Elizabeth grumbled.

  "We are," said Callum, "but we're not much on pretense. It isn't something that you play at. It happens—or it doesn't."

  She nodded. "Mostly it doesn't."

  Alasdair set down the bag of soil and glanced at his watch. It was nearly the hour the others had agreed on for lunch, but he was not hungry, at least not hun
gry enough to give up his solitude for the trivial banter of his fellow workers. He rather enjoyed being alone with his thoughts and with the rough beauty of the island. Perhaps he could buy it someday, when he had made a success of his medical career. People did own islands, he knew. They even built very grand houses on them. He stretched his long legs out in the grass, thinking for just a moment of sheep droppings. But no, it had been a good many decades since sheep had grazed the fields on Banrigh. He liked the feel of the sun on his face—really lovely weather they were having, and not something you could take for granted in the islands. It was bound to rain sooner or later. Another good reason not to go back for lunch. He'd better get as much done as he possibly could, in case the weather didn't hold.

  Alasdair did not mind hard work, not even menial work, as long as he felt that he was appreciated, that his work was contributing to his future. The archaeological expedition might seem an odd choice of holiday for a medical student, but he liked the idea of being the physician for the crew, and he thought that archaeology was a rather posh hobby for one to have. The right sort of people had an interest in antiquities; it might serve him well in the future.

  He smiled to himself. Besides, there was always the promise of adventure, which appealed to him. The crass little American might be right about treasure in the Highlands. There were certainly enough legends about it. Alasdair would be glad of a bit of treasure; he could use it more than the Crown could. It was a bit tiresome, at times, being all alone in the world and having to associate with scores of rich kids whose parents were seeing them through medical school with cars, flats, and a decent allowance, while Alasdair the Orphan worked and scrimped and studied hard to keep up with them. He was going to make it, though. Nothing was going to hold him back.

  Idly, he began to scratch in the soil with the auger. Hello! What was that? . . . Nothing he need mention, he decided a few moments later. Lunch was definitely out.

  "How did your morning go?" Elizabeth asked Denny in a carefully neutral tone.

  "Just as you think it did, I'm sure," he murmured, scooping up the last bit of canned spaghetti from his tin plate. "She's bloody hopeless, is Gitte. Tell her everything twice, and she still gets it wrong! We managed, though. I finally let her hold the clipboard when I wasn't using it, and that was the extent of her assistance."