The Amber Seeker

by Mandy Haggith

  Praise for The Walrus Mutterer

  Longlisted for the Highland Book Prize 2018

  ‘Haggith’s woman’s-eye view of the Iron Age feels fresh and distinctive.’ ALASTAIR MABBOTT, SUNDAY HERALD

  ‘An ambitious and imaginative novel … believable and compelling.’ JANE BRADLEY, SCOTSMAN

  ‘A gripping, haunting and, at times, visceral novel… Lyrical and poetic prose, the author has created a convincing and entirely believable world… One of the best books I have read so far this year.’ PENNY INGHAM, EDITOR’S CHOICE, HISTORICAL NOVELS REVIEW

  ‘We see what the world was like … for the Iron Age peoples, particularly the women … Rian is a compelling heroine … she has insights and wisdom that we moderns may well envy.’ MARGARET ELPHINSTONE

  ‘Utterly compelling … beautifully crafted … paints an exquisite pen picture.’ UNDISCOVERED SCOTLAND

  ‘The language and imagery are rich, poetic, visceral, and often moving … as strange and beautiful as anything science-fiction or fantasy has to offer.’ SCOTS WHAY HAE

  ‘An immersive evocation of ancient folklore and ritual, this novel’s characterisation and fast pace make it a real pageturner which will keep you hooked.’ SCOTTISH FIELD

  ‘The Walrus Mutterer transported me to an extraordinary Iron Age world that resonated long after the final page – vivid, memorable, and utterly compelling.’ HELEN SEDGWICK

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  TIN

  SETTING OUT

  BELERION

  NORTH ALBION

  AMBER

  NORTHERN LANDS

  THE GREATMOTHER

  TRAPPED

  IVORY

  HOMEWARDS

  ALBION

  ICTIS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY MANDY HAGGITH

  COPYRIGHT

  For Dad

  TIN

  SETTING OUT

  MY PURPOSE

  Laid out on my desk in front of me are three small tokens I wish you to have: a bronze owl, an amber bear and a walrus ivory dolphin. I don’t yet know exactly how I’ll get them to you, but I’ll find a way. The owl is a symbol of Athena, the bear of Artemis, the dolphin of Apollo, but they mean far more to me than mere gestures to the gods. When you receive them, I hope that what I write below will help you to understand what they stand for.

  What will this document be, exactly? A kind of letter? I suppose so. An epistle – the epistle of Pytheas has a ring to it, does it not? Perhaps it will be more than that. A testament? A kind of memoir? A confession? We’ll see.

  Where should I begin? With Rian, of course. She is the link between us. I bought her innocent and sold her world-wary. I have tried to pretend that what happened doesn’t matter because she was a slave, but she was impossible to enslave, really. Some wild animals can’t be tamed: otters, polecats, bears. Rian was like that. Ussa might have branded her, but her mind was always seeking freedom. When I bought her, I thought of her more as an adornment than a possession. She was an otter cub, and I wanted to pet her.

  I first saw her on a stony beach in a strange northern region called Assynt. She stood out from everyone around her, even then. They were dark and swarthy, whereas she was small and her hair was amber, exactly the colour of the material I was seeking. It was like a flame coursing over her head and down her back. She never seemed to be aware of how striking it was, how beautiful it made her, and even though she tied it up, nothing could prevent it shining, gleaming, mesmerising everyone who looked at it.

  I never learned her language, but I always make a point of knowing a few words in the tongue of every land I visit. I like to learn the word for beautiful, because it is often helpful to be able to show appreciation. I’d learned ‘bóidheach’ from the folk further south on the Winged Isle where we had been stormbound for a while, and when I spoke it there in Assynt, and touched her hair, some amber magic must have travelled between us, because somehow our fates became entangled.

  Ussa had a lot to do with it, of course. She is the sorceress of entanglement. I know that clearly now and I had an inkling even then. I was under her spell, although perhaps not to the extent she wanted. I was already grasping the way her spells rebounded on her, the obsessive manner of her meddling. She took glamour to such an extreme it seemed sometimes like madness.

  And Rian. Oh, Rian was a beam of innocence beside Ussa, a flower next to an eagle. You would have thought she wouldn’t stand a chance against her, but of course if you pluck a flower, another will grow in its place. Purity can be crushed but it has a way of bouncing back. You can try to blot it out, smear it with dirt, but if it goes right to the core of someone it will resurface. Rian is delicate and Ussa thought she was weak. How wrong she was. She might not have been the quickest or smartest of people, but she was strong as rock.

  What am I saying? I compare her to rock, otter and flower. She was all of these and none of them. She was unlike any other. You can tell already, of course; I fell in love with her.

  I wasn’t the only one flirting with her, but you know what? I think she was genuinely oblivious to us. She had that childlike innocence about her, like a shield. I think that was what made me feel so guilty about what happened.

  I’ll write more of Rian later, but first you need to understand the purpose of my journey. I went from here, Massalia, on the north shore of the Great Sea, in search of tin and amber and northern ivory. I hoped to identify resources in the north that are essential for our civilisation, and thereby find opportunities that would interest our emperor, Alexander. Yet whereas he took an army on his great venture east, I travelled alone. He sought to gain power, but I was seeking only knowledge. His life earned him grand statues and paintings adorning city walls, and although a few scratchings on parchment and papyrus will be all that’s left to show of mine, I have what he has no longer. I live still, whereas the gods have allowed him to die. It gives me cause to ponder my fortune.

  *

  I am celebrated for my long voyage, but the inner journey I went on was longer and more dangerous, and the scars and souvenirs I have brought back to Massalia were mostly its result. I wrote about my physical journey in my book. I took a lot of pains over it. It is the only one I intend to publish, and I am proud of it. Even the title is good – On the Ocean – with its double meaning. On the one hand, it is a travelogue of my journey from home in Massalia to the mouth of the river Garonne and the rest of the way by sea, but on the other hand, it is also a treatise on the vast northern ocean, its people, its mysteries, its wonders. I ask myself why I bothered, sometimes, when people like Dicaearchus and Mnason mock me for it, make me out to be some kind of fantasist. It all happened: there really is land that burns and melts, flaming, into the sea. And there really is, even further north, an end to the ocean where it freezes into slush and ice, so you can barely sail a boat through, where there is no land, nor sea nor air, but a mixture of these things, like a marine lung in which earth and water and all matter is in suspension.

  They say I made it all up, these ignorant critics who have never stepped foot outside of their Akademie in Athens. Miserable old cynics they are. They doubt everything just for the sake of it. They even doubt the ocean giants, the living islands that lift to the surface and spout like smoke. The seafarers call them spirits; they revere them and sing to them. I have come to believe, with their knowledge of the vast ocean and how to survive on it, that those seamen have more wisdom than our great philosophers who, in their white robes and ivory towers, are only interested in the idea of the sea, not the taste of salt on their lips.

  And as for the the walrus tusks from which the little dolphin is made, not a single person here
will believe what I can tell about them. It was an old friend of my father’s, a merchant and a devotee of Apollo, who offered me a generous reward if I could find out where the northern ivory originates. Even I struggled to believe half the stories from the Walrus Mutterer (no doubt you’ve heard them), but he swears they are true, and I have seen enough strange things to be credulous when an ocean farer tells me something, however far-fetched it might sound.

  But if I start with the Mutterer and his stories I’ll completely lose my thread. Although I intend this to be a personal story, a confessional, if you like, I suppose I should make an effort to make it logical.

  OF BEARS

  Please take particular care of the amber bear, for it is a thing of great significance and power. Consider it an amulet – but be wary of it.

  I have always had a great interest in bears. The goddess of the oak groves and the hunt, Artemis takes the form of a bear at times and has the power to turn people into them. She does this so that we discover our true nature, for that is the magic of the bear. This is not necessarily pleasant, as I know only too well, but I was taught that the bear is a symbol of courage.

  I encountered one early in my journey, not long after I left Massalia. It was very early in the year, around the time you call Imbolc, halfway between the winter and spring solstices. I headed west through the Midi, then up into the hills towards the head of the Garonne River. The sea route west out of our Great Sea – through the Pillars of Hercules and around Iberia – was of course out of the question. Apart from the fact that it is much further, I was not willing to risk travelling with Carthaginians, who control those waters and are by no means likely to grant a Greek safe passage. It seemed obvious to me to travel through Gaul. I speak Keltic fluently; my nurse made sure of that as she brought me up, and that made dealing with people easier everywhere I went.

  So there I was, early in the morning, on my way in good time after spending the night in a shepherd’s cottage. I had been walking through woods for perhaps half an hour, heading up a stream valley, and ahead of me I saw the pass, a narrow gap between the hills. In that gully I saw what I initially thought was a man standing, looking around and sniffing, and it was only when it dropped to four paws that I realised it was a bear. I feared I still had the smell of sheep on me from my stay the night before. It led off through the pass and I have to confess that this meant I went on in great trepidation, wondering if it was lying in wait to ambush me.

  I crept up to that pass with the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, padding as silently as I could. Before seeing the bear I had crunched along, striding and swinging my arms as if I was walking around a pleasure garden, but fear of meeting my end so early in my voyage in the jaws of a hungry carnivore meant that I approached the brow of the hill with great caution. I didn’t see the animal again but it it had done me a great service in setting me on my guard. Peering out, I saw two men with horses down below me. My bear-induced fear prevented me from hailing them with a cheery good morning, which would have been my instinct. Instead I slunk into a gap between boulders, listening for their approach. From my hiding place, I watched. They were ugly bruisers, scarred and armed and undoubtedly dangerous. I let them pass without alerting them to my presence, more scared now of my fellow species than of the bear.

  Instinct is a powerful force worth following. Take my advice and nurture it. This is the lesson of the bear. It was my fellow traveller throughout my journey, always reminding me to be alert to what might be over the brow of the next hill or hiding in the shadows. There are bears in the desert fringes of Afrika and bears even in the northernmost frozen wastes. Yes! There are white bears that live on the ice, huge and ferocious, they say – although I have only seen a mother with two cubs and she was solicitous of them, and gentle, and ran away from us humans to take her young to safety.

  Bears have judged me, and found me wanting. But that comes later.

  LE YAUDET

  I first heard about ice bears from Ussa. It was early spring. The days were getting longer, and the weather was mild. I had been journeying for a couple of weeks and I was getting into my stride. I was becoming familiar with the ways of the ports and how to find boats that would be moving on up the coast, and I was learning how to persuade their captains to take me with them. Gold or silver wasn’t always enough incentive. Every coastal community has a place where people gather for drink and stories and whatever follows from them, and so, when I reached Le Yaudet, that was where I headed.

  Imagine the evening settling over the sea, lights on incoming boats dancing their ripple-dances on the water, and just back from the shore a cluster of stone buildings and timber barns where trade goods were stored. From the door of one building came the sound of a stringed instrument: a lyre. I can never resist music; it is like a lamp to a moth. I had already found a place to lodge for the night in a dingy fisherman’s hut, but there were no other guests and the boat I had arrived on was returning westwards along the coast. I needed to find a vessel that would take me north to an island across the sea. I had heard several reports that this is where tin came from, although it was elusive. I had only seen ingots once so far, further south, in the hands of a trader who had bought them somewhere here, in this bustling place with its perfectly safe harbour.

  So I was wandering, seeking, and the lyre pulled me in. I hung around until someone approaching asked me who I was. He was an enormously fat man with frog’s eyes, carrying two big cod, and he said it was his house. I told him my story, and he invited me inside.

  The building wasn’t much to look at on the outside, but indoors it was splendid. Oak beams framed a long room, decorated with all manner of metal dishes and drinking vessels and brightly painted plates. The walls were plastered with murals of the sea; a monster of the deep with a huge winged tail reared up behind a raised dais on which the musician sat, playing his lyre and singing a song in the Keltic tongue. Another man was beside him with a big flat drum across his lap.

  I was shown to a bench close to the musicians by a cheery girl, presumably the fat man’s daughter. I felt all eyes upon me and once seated I looked around the other folk, most of whom were paying rapt attention to the singer. But there were several faces scrutinising me. A pair of hairy drinkers sat on stools close to our host, who stood beside the biggest barrel I have ever seen. In front of them, lounging at the head of the group nearest the dais, was the woman I now know as Ussa, but who then, as I set my eyes on her for the first time, was a regal vision. Her long, dark hair hung loose over a white fur coat. Her face was painted like a prostitute’s, but her jewellery was startling: what a weight of gold chain hung around her neck. Her hands and arms carried a display of gemstone rings, torcs and bangles that caught every flicker of light from the lamps hanging from the rafters and the candles on the benches. All the light of the room seemed to converge on her and radiate out again. And this glittering, gleaming queen was staring straight at me. I felt as if she was examining goods for sale.

  The girl brought a jug of ale and poured some for me. She mumbled something I didn’t understand, but I assumed it must be a request for money so I gave her a gold coin. She examined it on both sides, put it in her mouth and bit it gently, frowning. Clearly satisfied, a broad grin broke across her face and she curtsied to me as if her thin shift was a courtier’s dress, then trotted back to the corner where she handed the coin over to the frog-faced man. He repeated her scrutiny of it and gave a knowing nod of welcome as he caught my eye. There’s nothing quite like gold to make a man feel appreciated in this world.

  The white-coated woman had watched the transaction with interest. I wondered who she was, and made up my mind to engage her in conversation, if I could. Anyone wearing so much metalwork must have a good idea of where to acquire it, and probably knew a smith or two who might help me in my pursuit of tin. Not for the last time, as you’ll find out, I underestimated her.

  Seeing that some people were being given food, I waved to the girl and asked her if she woul
d bring me dinner and offer the woman in the white coat a cup of whatever she would like to drink. I proffered another coin but she waved it away – my currency was clearly valuable enough in these parts. And so my relationship with Ussa began. She raised her eyebrows when the girl told her of my offer and when a goblet was given to her with something frothy in it, she raised it in a toast to me and smiled the kind of smile that makes the stallion in me want to ride (if you understand my meaning).

  She had an entourage with her, mostly male. There was a foppish lad on her left hand, hanging on her every word or movement. She stroked him idly every now and again, as if he were a pet dog. Beside him, a thickset, ugly man with too many rings made conversation in what looked, even from my side of the room, to be a tiresome manner. I knew his type: they talk constantly about the costs of things and you know half of what they say is lies, but not which half. I have no time for them at all. Beside him was a beautiful man, I can describe him no other way: blond, lithe and dressed in a simple linen vest that revealed the lovely shape of his body. He made the others laugh, especially a burly threesome close by, and I could see Ussa touching him with her eyes and liking what she saw. Beside him was a similarly beautiful girl with a flute, his sister perhaps, who gazed at Ussa with what looked like awe.

  Then there were three burly men dressed identically in hard brown tunics and leggings that looked as if they were made of sailcloth. Beside them was an older, leaner sailor, a shrimp beside seals. The big guys had tankards of ale, but the old fellow had just a little cup. The four of them reminded me of the bodyguards I have seen flanking our Emperor, Alexander; on a smaller scale, obviously, but it was the same idea. A cadaverous old man joined them, dragging a low stool over. He nestled beside the skinny sailor and the two of them were soon heads together in urgent conversation. I learned later that the big guys were Ussa’s crew and the thin one was Toma, the skipper of her ship and one of the Northern Ocean’s finest sailors. I don’t think he ever really trusted me, but I respect few men more and even on that first sighting he stood out, for he was the only one in their group, in the whole room perhaps, who seemed immune to Ussa’s charms.