Paying the Piper

by Sharyn McCrumb

  She distracted herself with the thought that Cameron was coming in a matter of hours, and for that momentous occasion she decided to heat a pan of water on the camp stove. She would try to get her face and hands really clean.

  Owen Gilchrist gave his bagpipes a final swish for good measure and then carefully poured the mixture into the ground behind the hut. He had poured out the honey-and-hot-wax mixture the night before, according to the instructions; after he had kneaded the leather bag to make sure that the inside was entirely lubricated, he had set the bag upside down on the grass to drain. This morning he had used some of the hot water to swish it out one last time. The directions hadn't said to do this, but he thought it seemed like a good idea. He'd added half a cup of warm water to the bagpipe through the blowpipe and then quickly dumped it out. It hadn't taken much. There was still enough water in the pan on the stove to make a few cups of tea, when it eventually boiled, especially since Alasdair seemed to have skipped out without breakfast. Owen felt that this was an insult directed at him personally, but from the way the Danish girl was sniffling while she worked, perhaps the snub had been general.

  He thought he might not wait for Elizabeth's boyfriend to arrive. It wasn't as if he were bringing mail or candy bars or anything worth waiting for. He might as well get Callum to help him haul the boat out of the cave. He could set off for the little island right away.

  It was while he was blowing a few experimental notes on the newly cleaned pipes that Owen remembered that there was something Cameron could bring that would interest him. News. If the Edinburgh police had apprehended Keenan's murderer, surely the news would be all over the newspapers and radio. Assuming, of course, that Cameron had bothered to listen. Still, he'd better hang around and ask him; certainly no one else would bother to do so, and he couldn't stand the suspense another week. He continued to reassemble his pipes, fantasizing happily about his murder theory being proved right, and the others all begging his pardon for teasing him. He allowed himself to manufacture these small scenes of triumph to make up for the fact that in real life they never, ever happened.

  Gitte stared at the tin plate of powdered eggs slowly congealing in front of her. Where was everybody this morning? It was only half past eight, and only the two Americans were to be found. She supposed that Marchand had paid an early visit to the site, taking Leath, and probably Denny, with him.

  She didn't want to think about Alasdair just then, because that would make the tears come. She wished she could ask the American girl how she managed to get on so well with her Scottish boyfriend, but perhaps it was early days yet. Anyway, Gitte did not feel like confiding in Elizabeth, who acted altogether too much like one of the men, if you asked her.

  "Here," she said grudgingly, pushing the plate of eggs toward Elizabeth. "You might as well have these."

  "No, thank you," Elizabeth said with equal insincerity. "I'm sure that they can be reheated." Perhaps Alasdair will choke on them, she thought spitefully. She picked up the pill that Denny had left her and swallowed it with the last bit of her tea.

  "Do you plan to stay here all day waiting for your boyfriend?" Gitte asked with more than a hint of scorn.

  Elizabeth was stung. "I guess not!" she snapped. "What about you?"

  Gitte began clearing the breakfast things from the table. "I have work to do. They will need me at the site."

  Elizabeth left the Nissen hut, but she did not go straight to the standing stones. Perhaps he is already on his way, she on the cliff for several minutes, shivering in a sharp sea wind, before she realized that he would probably be coming to the other side of the island, as he had the time before. The wind in the rocks did sound a bit like a baby's cry, she thought. That was probably the origin of the Taran legends. The sky was gunmetal-gray, but mere was no hint of rain, and no darker clouds on the horizon, so she supposed that he would still be coming.

  A movement on the beach below caught her eye, and she saw the seal—perhaps the one Denny had told her about-sitting on a flat rock near the shore. It was a deep, shiny brown, almost the color of the wet rock, and it seemed to be looking back at her. Around its neck she could see a bit of plastic that must be the radio collar. She thought of going to get her camera, but that would mean returning to the hut for another confrontation with Gitte, so she decided against it. She would settle for telling Cameron about it when he arrived. Or perhaps it would still be there then. She wondered if anyone would mind if she fed it. But fed it what? Did they eat anything besides raw fish? She must remember to ask Cameron.

  Cameron Dawson had got a late start from the research station, so that it was nearly noon by the time he saw the mountains of Banrigh appear before him on the horizon. He had not quite liked the look of the sky, so he had stopped for one last check on the weather before setting out, in case the forecast had changed from the night before. It had not. A slow drizzle toward late afternoon was the worst he could expect, if the weather people were to be believed. He supposed he would have set off anyhow. Elizabeth was bound to take it personally if he did not turn up. She would excuse nothing less than a howling gale without doubting his devotion.

  Probably she thought that he was a much better sailor than he was. It fit his Scottish image in her mind: a race of Highland fishermen. But Cameron, who had admittedly become more accustomed to boats while getting a degree in marine biology, was not used to manning the vessel alone. He usually had the company of two or three more experienced people, and their trips were either short ones, or else taken on much larger vessels than this that were professionally manned. He supposed that he had agreed to run supplies for her dig partly to ensure her acceptance on the crew and partly to impress her. But, of course, she wasn't impressed. She simply took these things for granted. He supposed that might be a compliment, in a way, except that she would have thought the same of every other Scot.

  He wondered if he ought to have a go at landing on the western side of the island, thus braving the rocky inlet; but another glance at the sky convinced him that this was not the day for heroics. He could feel the pitch of the sea beneath him, and knew that while this was by no means stormy weather, neither was it dead calm.

  He wondered how Elizabeth was adjusting to life in the rough. No, he knew full well how she'd be taking it; what he wondered was whether she would admit it. He had brought her a tin of powdered cocoa mix and a box of chocolates as consolation, and he had firmly resolved to be as vague as possible about the comforts of his own research station. Hot water, he sensed, could easily be a source of hostility. The island was quite near now. Time to begin maneuvering to land. Cameron suddenly wondered if everything was all right on Banrigh, but he had no idea why such a thought should have occurred to him.

  Derek Marchand looked up from the theodolite, because he could no longer see the hexagonal prism in the viewfinder. He squinted at the dark stone for a moment. Finally, he caught sight of the reflector lying in the dirt in front of the stone. Elizabeth, who had been holding it, was running across the field toward a tall young man that for a moment he took to be Alasdair. That did not seem to make sense, and then he realized that this was the day the biologist was coming to see them, that, in fact, he had arrived.

  Marchand consulted his watch. "Half twelve," he said to no one in particular. "I suppose we could break for lunch now." If it were up to him, he would have kept working; they had lost a good bit of time to the rain, and there was no saying they wouldn't lose even more. Still, he thought, he could probably use a break more than the young people. He was beginning to feel the chill in his bones now, and he tired more easily than he remembered. Years of relative inactivity had taken their toll, and he had only been able to get back into fieldwork when his wife had finally died. He felt guilty putting it like that, but he assured himself that it did not mean he didn't miss her, only that he was adjusting well by taking up new interests. In fact, he hardly thought of her at all anymore, but he told himself that this was better than the vague sense of annoyance she had stirred
in him while she was alive. Once he had caught himself wondering if she would have come with him on a dig the way these young girls few random images that seemed like, and probably were, snapshots in the family album, he had no memory of her youth. She had just been there, he supposed, while his preoccupation was with himself, his career, and the war.

  He looked at the plump American girl embracing her young man, and they were as foreign to him as fifth-century Celts.

  Elizabeth understood that her time alone with Cameron would have to wait until he chatted with all the other diggers, received lists of supplies they needed and items they wanted sent back to the mainland, and until he had a general visit with Denny and Marchand, probably over lunch. She had resigned herself to this delay, resolving not to compete for his attention like a neglected child, and not to brood on questions like whether or not he had missed her. In order not to seem impatient for this general socializing to end, she paid considerably more attention to her potted meat sandwich than it merited.

  She sat down on a rock very close to Cameron, thinking that she could at least allow herself to be this proprietary. He smiled at her, and then turned back to his conversation with Denny, who was just telling him about the Banrigh seal.

  "I saw it, too!" Elizabeth cried, forgetting her resolution about Cameron's attention.

  "Then I suppose I can believe you, Denny," Cameron said solemnly. "One of our seals frequents your island. I'll see if I can figure out which one he is when I get back."

  Owen appeared just then, red faced and panting. "We've been getting the boat out, Callum and I, but I wanted to see you before I left. Might as well eat, too," he added. "My provisions are already packed up."

  "Owen will be staying a couple of nights on the small island to study the menhir there," Elizabeth explained.

  Owen did not look pleased at the prospect. "It's awfully gloomy today," he said, frowning up at the sky. "Did you run into rain?"

  "No," said Cameron. "But there may be some later on. You'll want to set off soon. It's not dead calm as it is."

  Owen looked as if he would like to say something else on the subject, but instead he asked, "Have they found the Edinburgh killer yet?"

  "I don't think so," Cameron replied. "It hasn't been mentioned on any news broadcasts."

  Owen looked pleased. He turned away and began to make himself a sandwich without even so much as a thank-you. "Owen," Denny said, "just how much boating experience have you had anyway?"

  "None," Owen said, smearing meat paste on a wedge of bread.

  Callum Farthing looked up. "None?"

  Owen flushed. "Well, it isn't far! Three-quarters of a mile at the most."

  "It will seem far if a storm comes in," said Denny. "Then how will you get back?"

  Callum sighed and stood up. "I suppose I'd better take him over.''

  "But I'll be stranded!" Owen cried. "What if I run out of food or something?"

  Denny smirked. "You're taking your bagpipes, aren't you,

  "I was planning on playing while I was over there," said Owen. "How will you know which is which?"

  Callum shrugged. "Can you play taps? You wouldn't be likely to practice that tune, would you? Play that when you want to be brought back."

  "Okay," Owen mumbled. "I guess it's better than getting swept away in that dinky boat.'' Another thought struck him. "Are you sure you'll be able to hear me from here?"

  Denny sighed. "I'm afraid so, Owen."

  Callum and Owen said their goodbyes to the group and headed for the beach where they had left the boat. For the rest of lunch Marchand explained what they had been doing on the dig, and he and Leath discussed the various things that needed to be sent back to the mainland: Callum's film, Alasdair's soil samples.

  "Talking of Alasdair, where is he?" asked Denny. "Didn't you say he left a note saying he needed to see Cameron?"

  Elizabeth nodded. "Yes. He left it quite early. Before he went to look for his Tarans." She made a face.

  "His what?" asked Cameron.

  Elizabeth shook her head. "Cultural illiteracy strikes again."

  "They're burial grounds up on cliffs," Denny told him. "Nothing you'd have come across in Auld Reekie."

  Gitte, who had said almost nothing since Cameron's arrival, looked worried. "Has no one seen him today?"

  "I'm sure he's fine," Denny said automatically, but he looked at Cameron as he said it, and his eyes were grave.

  Cameron stood up. "Perhaps we ought to go and hunt him up," he said with careful heartiness. "I'm sure he just lost track of the time, but we'd better find him if he wants a word with me before I leave. Let's spread out, shall we? Elizabeth, want to come with me?"

  Elizabeth realized at once that this was to be their time together, and while she would have preferred another way to spend it, she could hardly say so, with everyone so concerned about Alasdair—but pretending not to be. They started off together up the path that led through the hills and, eventually, back to where Cameron had left his boat. The others had started out in different directions along the cliffs to search the edges of the island.

  Elizabeth looked out at the peat bogs, now a dull green in the gray light of an overcast sky. The black speckled rocks dotted the field like birds' eggs. What color had Alasdair been wearing? Would he be easy to spot? Should they call out to him?

  "I cut my finger," she said, in consequence of nothing.

  After a moment's pause, Cameron replied, "I'm sorry. Is it painful?"

  "A little," Elizabeth said, glad she could say that it was. ' T keep the bandage changed, and Denny has given me some of his antibiotics—just in case."

  "You shouldn't..." Take other people's medicine, Cameron was going to say, but he realized that she might take this as a lack of concern for her. There might have been a small chance of infection, after all, so what did it matter if she took a few pills. "You shouldn't try to use it too much," he finished.

  She nodded. "I'll be careful. I always wash my hands after I've been working.''

  "I brought you a few things," he said, fishing a package out of the pocket of his anorak. "Chocolate bars and some cocoa. You look as if you need a treat."

  The spark in Elizabeth's eyes made him realize that this had been an unwise thing to say, but he thought that a manufactured excuse might make things worse, so he said nothing.

  "Thank you," she said at last. "I promise to share them round."

  "Have you missed me?"

  Elizabeth was grateful that he had posed the question before she burst out with it. "I expect I have," she replied. "It's hard to say, really. Things are so primitive here, and practically everyone is so difficult, that I can't tell if I miss you desperately, or if I'd just be glad to see anybody who isn't on this dig!"

  "We'll hope it's more than that," said Cameron.

  "Well, I wouldn't want you getting too conceited."

  Cameron looked at the rocks on one side of the path, and at the sheer drop on the other. "Why did Alasdair go looking for this Taran place?"

  "Chiefly to taunt Owen, I think," Elizabeth said. "He's a great one for solitude, is Alasdair—always going off by himself anyway. Having spent a week with Gitte, I can't say that I blame him. And he has been teasing Owen about his morbid tastes in crime and about his image of archaeology as a child's treasure hunt. I think he wanted to drive Owen mad with envy by suggesting that he had made a discovery concerning one or both.''

  "Suppose he has?"

  "I don't think so," said Elizabeth. "I don't think he'd want to give Owen the satisfaction of being proved right. It would almost be like Alasdair to cover up anything interesting, just for spite."

  Cameron considered this. "I suppose the Crown would get anything they found anyway. Isn't that how it works?"

  Elizabeth stared at him. "Don't you know? It's your country!"

  "Well, they've never asked me for any seals. I thought the subject might have come up, what with you being archaeologists and all."

  "I'm an anthropologis
t," Elizabeth reminded him. "And the Queen is welcome to any old bones I find. Actually, I think the stuff gets claimed for the Crown as a technicality, but in fact it would end up in a museum somewhere. Probably Edinburgh, like the St. Ninian's treasure."

  Cameron nodded. "Very likely."

  "But there isn't anything to find, of course. Tarans are unbaptized babies buried in unmarked graves. They wouldn't be buried with anything at all. Even the bones may be dust by now. I tell you, all this is Alasdair's idea of a joke." She shivered. "I have missed you. Denny is nice enough in his shallow little way, but sometimes I just want to talk to you so much ..."

  Cameron wasn't listening. He stared ahead at nothing, one ear cocked in the direction of the cliff. After a moment's pause, Elizabeth heard it too. The echo of a scream that could only be Gitte, followed by shouts for help.

  Cameron said, "They've found Alasdair."

  CHAPTER

  12

  "He's going to be all right," Denny kept saying, although no one was listening. He was not sure what to do, but it seemed to him that being cheerful and encouraging was both innocuous and satisfying. He had no idea whether or not it was true, but it seemed the proper attitude to take.

  Denny and Gitte had been the first ones to find Alasdair, as he lay unconscious but still breathing at the base of a rocky hill, his head just to the left of a white-flecked stone that must have stopped his fall. A smear of dirt and a long scratch on his cheek were the only signs of injury, but they knew that he must have hit the back of his head on the rock and that they must not move him. Denny remembered reading that somewhere.

  After the one involuntary scream, Gitte had not uttered another sound. Denny shouted for help, his hands cupped against his cheeks, as he scanned the cliffs for a glimpse of the others. Gitte sat down on the ground beside Alasdair, never taking her eyes off his face, watching to see that his shallow breathing did not stop.