The Amber Seeker

by Mandy Haggith

  I fear I neglected him. I thought he would settle in time. I made sure he was offered the best of food: fresh vegetables and good mutton stews, bean soups, good bread, all the things a growing boy needs. He had a nurse and was well provided for with toys, including the ivory dolphin I had carved on The Dawn, and my bronze owl, symbol of Athena the wise, but he did not play like other children. I tried to teach him Greek but he said little, and it seemed that whenever he did it was to ask for you. I confess I grew tired of hearing your name, and I must have snapped at him to stop his incessant complaint of ‘Want Soyea’.

  I have done many things in my life for which I feel remorse and I know it is an endless, pointless waste to feel this way, but still I do, and still there is one thing that I regret more than anything. I fear I silenced him, the poor child. The truth is that without you, he wasted away inside himself.

  After a while his nurse told me he was refusing to eat. I hoped it was just the difficulty of settling into a new place, and that hunger would eventually win the day. But in the darkest month of the winter, his nurse came to me one morning and said he had been raving in the night, shouting for his mother, for Soyea, screaming, thrashing, and she thought he was feverish. But when I went in to see him, he was lying in his bed, inert and pale. I sat for a while and he started to squirm and twist himself into odd shapes, making a strange growling, gurgling sound. When I touched his forehead it was clammy but not hot. He didn’t seem to know me. I sought out an apothecary and asked his advice. He said he was attending two other patients that afternoon and would call on us afterwards. I returned to the house, where I had correspondence to attend to and a visiting merchant occupied me for a while. It was this time of year and my brother was away in Athens, as he is now, so I was the acting head of the household.

  When I looked in on the boy later, he was lying still, his breath shallow, brow hot to the touch, and I wished the medical man would come more urgently. When he finally arrived he took a cursory look at the patient, pronounced his diagnosis to be ‘a chill’, and assured me there was nothing to worry about. I had a lingering doubt, but who was I to argue?

  Before bedtime I looked in again at the boy. He opened his eyes when I sat down beside him but he seemed to look right through me. I saw his dry lips shape your name, ‘Soyea’, which I had heard so often from him, but no sound came and his eyes closed at the same time as his mouth. I never saw them open again. I retired, trying to believe the reassurance from the apothecary, but was woken at dawn by the nurse, who simply said, ‘come’.

  He was dead. Perhaps this was the only way he could escape his pain. Was he too young to believe that spring would ever come? I sat at his bedside and wept.

  I realise that in this long epistle I have circled around my feelings and my guilt. I do not want to be a man who lives full of regret, and yet I find myself treating this as a kind of confession. I have, I hope, explained the wrong I did your mother, Rian, when she was in my company. And yet, what I did to your brother, my only son, I can hardly bring myself to write. No words can express my anguish, Soyea. I know no way to say how sorry I am. And yet I am so, so sorry.

  I think his silence has affected me. I have images in my head of him in his final days, so frail and so sad, but I don’t know where I would find the words to go through all that sorrow again. Let me only say this: my love was not enough. You and your mother were everything to him and he was too young to be taken from you. I should never have done it.

  I will not bluster and try to justify it. Nor will I labour on about how heavy I feel. I don’t deserve your sympathy nor do I seek it. I simply want to say that I didn’t mean this to happen. I know it is no excuse.

  I remember once, as a boy, killing a kitten accidently. It was pitiful. I cried and cried. I had murdered it, though I hadn’t meant to, of course. I meant it no harm at all. I wanted to love it, to care for it, but it was in the way as I ran down the passage to the courtyard where lunch was being served, just before the door, hidden by the bead curtain put there to stop flies from coming in. I wasn’t looking at my feet and trod on it. I must have broken its back. It mewed, and died. I was so ashamed I told nobody. They were calling for me to come and eat. I took it to my bed, floppy in my hands, but after lunch, when I returned, it was cold. I buried it. My father and brother never knew. I couldn’t tell them I was crying for a kitten. I never told anyone until now.

  And I feel it is the same with Cleat. I wanted to care for him too, but somehow I have killed him. The death of another innocent is on my hands. And yet, I long to believe he would have died anyway, and that where he is now is sweet. But these are excuses. There is nothing more I can say. I am a blank page.

  This morning I cut my hair, went to Cleat’s grave, and scattered the clippings. I am going grey.

  We buried him quietly. The boy’s nurse and my old nanny, Danu, sat by his bed and chanted dirges, preparing him for his passage. I encouraged Danu to sing all the Keltic songs she knew. I hope that Hades has been able to restore him to peace. I wonder if our underworld connects with those I visited in Albion. I think often of Seonag in her beautiful cave and pray that her spirits have found my little boy and care for him. I put a bronze token between his lips to pay for his journey to the land of the dead, hoping that the tin in it would return his soul to Mother Earth, as the miners I met believe.

  We were a small, sober procession to the graveyard. I placed him in honour in our family tomb, with libations of milk and, after some deliberation, gull feathers, so that Hades might understand his soul belonged over the sea. I had someone come and play a lyre, but it was nothing like Seonag’s beautiful playing. I hope my boy has gone where that music can comfort him.

  After visiting the grave this morning, I walked down to the vineyard and up onto the hill overlooking the harbour. I had intended to go to the temple, but turned back. A raven flew over, flipped onto its back and then righted itself. I thought of your mother, as I do so often, and of you. I wish you the freedom of a bird and joy in your life, wherever you are, whatever you do.

  I am so sorry, my dear, but now I have told you everything there is to know. For thirteen years I have carried the shame of his death. He would have been a young man. You, my dear, if you are reading this, must be a woman. I hope that you and your mother have escaped the clutches of Ussa.

  So why do I write this now? Just to unburden myself, and perhaps in the vain hope that this letter can reach you and explain something of the gap that you no doubt feel in your life. I had promised I would return with him, but I was too ashamed to show my face in Albion again. I had no energy for journeying at all. I know your mother must have suffered agonies of uncertainty, wondering what happened to her son. This letter, if she reads it or if you tell her its contents, can offer no consolation.

  I know I should expect nothing but your fury, even hatred, but if there is anything I can do to help you in any way, please know that nothing would give me greater comfort. I will not claim the title of my blood, for I have not been a father to you.

  Nonetheless, I remain your anguished and loving friend,

  Pytheas of Massalia.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  It all began with Clachtoll broch, so my first thanks must be to the Iron Age architectural genius who worked out how to build a 15-metre-high, double-walled dry-stone tower. John Barber, of AOC Archaeology, calls him Ug – so thank you, Ug. You not only left a remarkable legacy on the shore of my home parish, but you sparked in me a fascination with your period and with the people who built, inhabited and visited your implausibly wonderful building. I must also thank Graeme, Andy, Alan, Charlotte and all the other members of the AOC team who have helped to bring the Iron Age (and indeed other periods) to life through their work in Assynt and indulged my wonderings about what Pytheas may have found here when he came, way back in 320BC.

  Huge gratitude also to Gordon Sleight, who has repeatedly hired me to hang out with this brilliant team on their various digs, and to pick their brains while
ostensibly writing blogs and media releases for them. Gordon has also read these books with a meticulous care and pointed out the many mistakes, anachronisms and pieces of wishful but implausible thinking that I wove into earlier drafts.

  Professor Barry Cunliffe was also very helpful in his insights about Pytheas and in encouraging my ideas about what he might have been getting up to in this neck of the woods. Professor Donna Heddle was similarly key in helping me imagine the cultural world Pytheas found here. Staff of the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh, and the museums in Kilmartin, Stromness, Kirkwall, Wick, Inverness, Pendeen, Penzance, Copenhagen, Oslo, Krakow and Longyearbyen have helped me in my research over the years. Particular thanks to Neil Burridge for showing me his bronze-smithing magic, to the captains and crews of the Ortelius and the Noorderlicht, for amazing adventures in the pack ice and northern ocean, and to Ian Stephen for sailing wisdom and stories about the sea in times gone by. And thanks to everyone else who has talked to me about the Iron Age and helped me to time-travel back to when Pytheas made his amazing journey. All remaining historical inaccuracy is entirely my fault.

  The book could not have been written without the chance to take some time out of the day job, and this was made possible by a generous bursary from Creative Scotland, for which I remain hugely grateful. It came about as a result of urging from staff at Moniack Mhor, who also gave me retreat space and moral support by simply believing in the project.

  Margaret Elphinstone was my first reader, critical friend and mentor, and the long conversations and convivial times with her and Mike were priceless waypoints on the journey to the finished books. Jane Alexander and John Bolland were crucial readers of early drafts, so thank you both for the encouragement and helpful suggestions about story and characters. Thanks also to all my other writing buddies: Romany, Jorine, Anna, Maggie, Becks, Anita, Graham, Kate, Alastair, Phil and everyone else who has come to join in writing events in Assynt, not forgetting Ed Group, Helen Sedgwick, Peter Urpeth and Janet Paisley. I’m grateful to Lesley McDowell and Madeleine Pollard for editorial advice, Jei Degenhardt for proofreading, and to all at Saraband, especially Sara Hunt, for bringing it to fruition.

  My Mum sadly didn’t get to read this book, but her pride in me lives on and I’m grateful for it every day. Thankfully I have my Dad and my uniquely wonderful sister, Alison, offering endless support. Thanks to you both and to all the rest of our far-flung tribe.

  This book was largely written at sea, so thanks to the crew of Each Mara, the most precious of whom is Bill, my patient mate and co-skipper, to whom I offer buckets of love and hugs, onshore and off.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MANDY HAGGITH lives in Assynt in the northwest Highlands of Scotland, where she combines writing with sailing, environmental activism and teaching – she is a lecturer in literature and creative writing at the University of the Highlands and Islands. Her first novel, The Last Bear, won the Robin Jenkins Literary Award for environmental writing in 2009. The Amber Seeker is her fourth novel. Mandy is also the author of three poetry collections, a non-fiction book and numerous essays, and the editor of a poetry anthology.

  Also by Mandy Haggith

  Fiction

  The Walrus Mutterer

  Bear Witness

  The Last Bear

  Poetry

  Castings

  letting light in

  Into the forest

  Non-fiction

  Paper Trails: From Trees to Trash,

  the True Cost of Paper

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Saraband,

  Digital World Centre, 1 Lowry Plaza

  The Quays, Salford, M50 3UB

  and

  Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road,

  Glasgow, G3 6HB

  www.saraband.net

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Mandy Haggith, 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright owner.

  ISBN: 9781912235292

  ISBNe: 9781912235308

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf SpA.

  In the first volume of the Stone Stories trilogy, Rian, a carefree young woman and promising apprentice healer, is enslaved by a spiteful trader and forced aboard a vessel to embark on a perilous sea voyage. They are in search of the fabled hunter known as the Walrus Mutterer, to recover something once stolen.

  The limits of Rian’s endurance are tested not only by the cruelty of her captor, but their mysterious fellow passenger Pytheas the Greek – and the mercilous sea that constantly endangers both their mission and their lives.

  A visceral evocation of ancient folklore and ritual, The Walrus Mutterer is an epic tale that introduces an unforgettable cast of characters in an extraordinary, vividly imagined Celtic world.

  LOOK OUT FOR

  THE LYRE DANCERS

  THE THIRD AND FINAL VOLUME OF THE STONE STORIES TRILOGY

  Years have passed, and Rian, still in search of the mystery of her origins, decides to risk returning to Assynt.