The Island House

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  She gave him a paintbrush, smiling.

  The delicate work of bagging up the skeleton had taken a while. The skull was in worse condition than the other bones, and that made it tricky to lift, but Freya was finally satisfied that they’d cleared the grave of all the bones that still existed. And she’d been pleased to find a few scattered beads behind the top of the spinal column. Amber was not as good as coins with an actual date, or pottery, but at least they were contemporaneous to the burial.

  “So, what now?” It was definitely easier to talk to each other this morning, and Dan even accepted Freya’s help to pull him out of the trench without comment.

  “We can come back for her later. She’ll be quite safe here.” Freya placed the bags of bones under the plastic sheeting and carefully repegged the edges of the tent. “I want to show you something else. I’ve been digging up there.” She pointed toward the ring stones.

  “Where the crucifix was found?”

  “Yes.” Freya sauntered beside him at an easy pace.

  Dan was not sure if he was grateful for her consideration. People said you felt an amputated arm or leg long after it was gone; he felt, all the time, the shape of his amputated independence.

  She paused at the edge of the outer ring of stones. “They’re something, aren’t they?” She patted the nearest monolith. “But why won’t you talk to me?”

  “You’d not understand their jokes.”

  Freya wheeled. “How do you know?” But she smiled at him. “Dad dug here, and he wrote about looking for an important grave site in this area. He thought it was linked to what he was seeing.”

  “Seeing?” Dan’s tone sharpened.

  She faced him. “From the time he found the crucifix, he saw them too.”

  Dan frowned. “Them? What them?”

  Freya said softly, “The people we see, Dan. We’ve never really talked about that, not properly: if you and I see the same things?”

  Unconsciously, he backed away just a step or two. “What do you want me to do, Freya?”

  “Try to tune in. I don’t know—follow your instincts.”

  “Ah.” That fugitive smile. “And what shall you do?”

  “I, Daniel Boyne, shall continue to dig.” She pointed to her trench. “I found pottery shards here the other day—high-status ware. Might even be Roman.”

  He looked dubious. “A long way from home.”

  She laughed. “I meant Roman Era, though it’s a puzzle why it would be north of Hadrian’s Wall. But it could be an offering vessel, and there might be more material to find. Why don’t you just look around—get a sense of the place.”

  “I’ve never been good at sensing things.”

  “Things have changed, Dan. Just . . . try.” Freya nodded and clambered down into her trench. Soon she was absorbed. More shards, perhaps a different pot with higher sides and . . .

  “Freya, come and have a look.”

  Her head popped up.

  At the other side of the inner circle of stones, Dan was standing on a patch of ground where the grass was different—shorter, much less dense.

  “It might be nothing.” His tone was neutral.

  She brushed soil from her knees and hurried over. Dan was holding a long metal spike. He offered it to her. “Push down—the earth’s quite soft.”

  Freya sank the spike into the soil. It went down easily, as if through fudge, then the metal hit something. “Stone.”

  He nodded. “Feels like it.”

  “Could just be stone-stone?”

  “Maybe, but it’s big. I’ve tested quite an area with the spike. I think the object’s long but not so wide.” Dan swept his arms out to indicate dimensions. “You asked me to trust my instincts.” He grinned.

  She flashed a wary smile. Two speeds this one, stop and go.

  It took more than an hour to fully uncover the stone. A rough oblong, the slab was more than two meters long, less broad, and at least three handspans thick. But it was worked stone—the marks of tools were still visible on the edges.

  Dan leaned on a shovel at the bottom of the pit they’d dug and stared at the earth they’d shifted—it was piled up on the edges of the trench. “Maybe it’s from the Abbey buildings.”

  “What’s it doing here, then?” Freya stared gloomily at what they’d found; stone, after all, was just stone. “Hang on.” She brushed an edge and stared up the nearest monolith. “Does this look like similar material to you—to the uprights, I mean?”

  Dan glanced around the inner circle. “Maybe, but I’m a shipwright, not a stonemason.”

  “But could this be one of the stones? The monks might have pushed it over and . . .”

  “It’s not long enough to be one of the uprights.” Dan’s tone was reasonable.

  Freya’s enthusiasm flickered out. “You’re right.” She scrambled out of the trench and stared again at the circle. “You know, the odd thing is there’s no offering stone. Dad noticed that.”

  “No offering stone?” Dan was weary—aching from all the digging and muscles long unused.

  “No altar, if you like.”

  He pointed to a corner of the stone block, then brushed away the remaining soil. “Have a look at this.”

  Freya stared at the shallow carving. “An equal-armed cross inside a circle.” She sat back. “Christian.”

  He nodded. “But it’s the same symbol.”

  She was confused. “As what?”

  “The lead box. Does that not have the same device on its lid?”

  “So maybe this is just a spare bit of stone the monks used for practice.” She was trying to be pragmatic.

  “You said it yourself. If it’s from the Abbey, how come it’s all the way out here? A long way to carry something this big.” Dan grimaced. He could feel the stone’s mass in his muscles. “I’d not have liked to try, that’s for sure.”

  “Hmmm. Why would you go to the trouble of carting it so far?” Freya sighed. “So many unanswered questions, who’d be an archaeologist?” She wiped her face with the tail of her shirt, smearing sweat and dirt across her cheeks.

  Dan grinned.

  “What?” Freya was suspicious.

  “Nothing. You were saying?”

  She stretched her back, a bit deflated. “It would be so great to lift the slab, see if there’s anything underneath, but not today. I need to document while we still have light.” She’d have to take Katherine and Dan back to Portsolly in the morning—they both had jobs—and she couldn’t move such a massive stone without help.

  Dan tried to recapture their earlier, positive tone. “Should it be covered when you’re finished?”

  Freya nodded. She picked up the bundle of ranging poles and slung the digital camera around her neck. “This won’t take long. Then we can see if Dad had any more field tents—or a tarp, if we’re desperate . . .”

  There was smoke coming from the kitchen chimney as Freya and Dan trudged back toward the house.

  “Katherine must have lit the stove; that’s nice of her.”

  Dan nodded. “A bath—now there’s a thought.”

  Freya said, dreamily, “Seconded, and that first beer won’t touch the sides.”

  Dan nodded. They both sped up.

  Freya was quite merry as she opened the door and clattered down the stairs. “Hello. Anyone home?”

  Katherine called out from the big room at the front. “In here.”

  “You have first go at the bath, Dan.” Freya headed across the kitchen as her guest negotiated the stairs behind her.

  “I could start looking for a tarp if you like? Have a bath after that,” he replied.

  “Okay, thanks. I don’t think there’s anything else in the barn, but you could see if I’ve missed anything, I guess.”

  Dan, having reached the bottom, stifled a sigh and began the trudge back up.

  Sitting at Michael’s desk, Katherine was waiting. She was wearing white cotton gloves, and arranged around her, in small piles, were leaves from the tiny
manuscript.

  “Hello, Freya.” Her face was faintly flushed.

  “You’ve found something.” Freya knew, she just knew.

  Katherine nodded. Her voice quavered the smallest amount. “When your father began to dig the grounds of the Abbey methodically, he would often ask me to research particular details of religious life for him. That was some years after we first met, of course.” She did not look at Freya. “There was so much that was interesting in the old monastic chronicles—the histories of the times in which the writers lived, the rules that governed monastic life, all sorts of things—and I was always delighted to help. In fact, the work became a passion of mine. However, the marginalia, the little personal comments in the margins of the manuscripts, were most compelling of all to me. Real voices, personal opinions of actual people, and all so long ago—many of them frank and quite touchingly direct. And, too, with practice I found I could identify the broad time frame of a particular writer by the style and form of what was on the manuscript page—the way the letters were formed, for instance, whether the text was large or small.” She paused, then said, cautiously, “On that basis I am inclined to believe that this manuscript might be placed from around the end of the eighth century to mid–ninth century, Common Era. And it was not written by a monk.”

  Freya frowned. “Who, then? A layperson?”

  Katherine shook her head decisively. She tapped one of the little piles. “This was written by a nun, and it’s a diary of sorts.”

  “But . . .” Freya pulled a chair up beside Katherine. “The diary form wasn’t invented in the West until hundreds and hundreds of years afterward—if you’re right about the date.”

  The librarian handed her a single page. “Yes. And only men wrote diaries even then, because they were more likely to be literate and women were not. This is as far as I’ve got. My notes are in brackets.”

  “What lovely writing you have.”

  Katherine colored with pleasure. “A lost art.”

  But Freya hardly heard the librarian’s answer, for rising off the page, like smoke, like mist, was the essence of a voice not heard for more than a thousand years.

  FEAST OF PRISCA [JANUARY. VIRGIN

  MARTYR OF THE EARLY CHURCH.]

  Cold today. Ink frozen again. Many ill with flux and lying in caldarium but no meat to eat—this is a bad winter. I have chilblains, and Brother Abbot says it is punishment from God for my rebellious [disobedient?] heart. I am ordered to confess my sin in Chapter before my brothers and sisters. [Double monastery? Celtic Church, therefore?] I will do your penance gladly, Lord, but would be grateful for warm hands, for it is hard to grind the colors with cold fingers. I have the curse of Eve today, my belly gripes, and there is very little linen. [The writer must be a young woman and unusually frank.]

  Freya met Katherine’s glance. They were both breathing rapidly.

  FRIDAY FAST.

  Most dear God, may I serve you better. I do not like herring, but it is your bounty, and I am unworthy. Still cold in Scriptorium, but today I have learned to make a good green from salts of copper. Perhaps that will please my brothers. [Why was a woman permitted in a scriptorium, in company with monks?]

  Why indeed? wondered Freya.

  PURIFICATION OF THE VIRGIN.

  Coarse wool is hard to bear, but I have no shift—penance. Mother——[name hard to read] says acceptance of my faults is an important task for me. She helps me pray, and we ask for strength so that I may withstand my own nature. Gathered oysters for Brother Vidor. Shells shall be used to mix colors for God’s work here. My feet still numb from wading in the cove at dawn. Sea very cold. I saw my friend. We did not speak.

  Freya put the page down. She was pale.

  Katherine leaned forward. “Do you agree she’s a nun?”

  Freya gazed at her unseeing. “Yes, I think she must be—except for the reference to ‘my friend.’ Nuns aren’t supposed to have personal relationships, are they? But this is the first time I’ve heard, or anyone’s heard, a woman’s authentic voice emerge this early from a convent. That’s just . . .” The word was hard to find. “It’s eerie.”

  Katherine nodded. “And, if this is a double foundation, it’s most likely a pre-Conquest monastery of the Celtic Church. The symbol on the lead box may therefore be roughly contemporaneous with the manuscript.”

  Freya paced the room but stopped with a jolt. “Would you like to take the manuscript back to Portsolly tomorrow, Katherine? You could translate the rest of it during the week.”

  “Would I like to?” Katherine’s smile was fervent. “It’s a privilege. An honor.”

  Freya said quickly, “And maybe you could come over here again next weekend? Would that be enough time?”

  “Certainly, I should like that. And I can do more in the next hour or so too.”

  “Excellent. I just need to cover the dig at the stones. Dan’s looking for a tarp.”

  Katherine was already absorbed as she reached for the next tiny piece of vellum. She said absently, “Try the undercroft. Michael stored most things there . . .”

  The beam from Dan’s flashlight splayed over the surface of the monolith. “Runes?”

  “Yes, but I can’t read them. Frustrating.”

  Dan grinned. “You hide it well. But what about the other symbols?”

  Freya lifted a shoulder irritably. “I don’t know. No one does if they’re Pictish.” She was standing quite close to Dan; he smelled comfortably sweaty, and she must have as well. He didn’t seem to mind. “Their language has never been deciphered, though some symbols crop up all over the place in this part of the world. Serpents, double disks”—she pointed—“and one I find really odd—a hand mirror.” She smiled. “Ah, vanity; human nature doesn’t seem to change much.”

  Dan stared at the enigmatic stone pillar. “I agree. We’re them, they’re us.”

  Freya held her lamp higher and turned a full circle. “What I don’t understand—among so many things—is why the monks would allow this thing to stay here. A Pagan monument.” She held her lamp higher. “Findnar is full of mysteries, that’s what Dad said.”

  Dan eyed the Compactus. Beside it, beneath the windows, was a bank of low cupboards. Gray-painted metal, they were anonymous, in the style of locker rooms all over the world. “Might solve a small one if we look over there. The tarps?”

  “Okay.” Freya strode to the first cupboard. It was unlocked, and on the shelves were neat coils of rope, aluminum tent pegs and, best of all, several groundsheets with rings inserted in the edges.

  “Yes!” She hauled out a folded piece of plasticized cloth and gathered armfuls of pegs. “This looks big enough. I’ll rig it over the stone in case it rains tonight.” She took the staircase at a run.

  Dan called after her, “Stone melts, does it?”

  From the kitchen he heard her shout, “No, but if there’s anything underneath, water percolates and . . .”

  A moment later, and her abashed face appeared around the door upstairs. “Sorry, Dan, that was rude. Take your time.”

  He did not answer.

  Spooked, Freya hurried down the stairs. “Dan?”

  “Here I am.”

  Freya could see his light now, swaying and bobbing as he limped toward her.

  “Just wanted to explore a bit more. Have you seen the wall, by the way?”

  “What wall?”

  Dan waved the flashlight. “Come and have a look.” He was leading her away from the stairs into the dark. “It may be nothing, but . . .” He pointed the light. “This bit is different from . . .” He swiped the beam in an arc. “From this. See?”

  Perhaps it was the way the flashlight played with the plastered surface, perhaps she imagined it, but there seemed to be a bulge in the wall. Freya nodded slowly. “Something’s been blocked up.” Fear congealed in her chest. “I’d better do the tarp while there’s still light, though. Have that bath, Dan. Back soon.” She waved cheerily this time as she hurried away.

  But
Dan wasn’t fooled. Before he climbed the stairs, he turned and looked back. Freya had asked him to follow his instincts, and he had. Twice. Down here there was something. But what?

  The owl was hunting again. As Freya trudged back across the meadow, she watched it quarter the ground beneath its wings.

  She didn’t know if she liked the owl—there was something alien in those great unblinking eyes, that golden, vacant stare.

  She stopped. The bird was behaving strangely—it seemed to be flying backward and forward in a regular pattern.

  Squinting in the half-light, Freya watched as the owl fluttered down and landed on the apex of the field tent. Wings neatly folded, it turned its head all the way around to stare at her.

  Freya called out. “Impressive—very Exorcist.”

  The owl ignored her. It launched into the air, heading toward the rookery. That’s right. Go rob a nest. Knock yourself out.

  Freya sighed and walked on. She was weary, and the ring stones were farther away than they looked—everything always was on Findnar. She wasn’t enjoying the thought of rigging a large tarpaulin single-handed in a rising wind either, but once she arrived beside the pit, training took over. With a fair bit of swearing, she finally outmaneuvered the flapping plastic and pinned it to the earth.

  Arms in the air, Freya shouted, “Thank you!” Then, on impulse, she bowed to the stones before she marched off toward Compline. “See you all soon. Be good.” Each step, and I’m closer to hot, hot water . . .

  As she reached the site of the girl’s grave, Freya stopped to collect the bagged skeleton and strike the tent. The sun was sinking into a furnace of scarlet and gold on the western horizon, and she paused to admire the dying of the day, turning for one last look at the ring stones.

  Something moved in the inner circle. Fluttered. A figure.

  This time there was no mist and no ambiguity. This time, someone really was standing there—a woman—and it wasn’t Katherine. This person wore a dress of some kind—a dull red color. No. Not a dress, a tunic. That’s what fluttered.