It Takes a Thief

by Niels Hammer

  “O course! Ye can see it on the menu here.”

  “Very good, then I would like a grilled Lobster, rye bread toasted, butter and plenty of lemon, plus maybe a little mayonnaise, and a whole avocado if possible.”

  “Awreit, in half an hour or thereaboot.”

  “I’m not in a hurry, so just take your time.”

  He left the empty lobby to find the home of The Black Earle whose reputation had built him a house of stone which his spirit could haunt for the benefit of the regulars in whose imagination he would appear as a pirate – a highwayman or a revolutionary – sinister – but noble and ruthless or even maybe as evil and graceful with an other-worldly air. The tenth earl of Dondonald? However – the place itself seemed to have a quiet cosy atmosphere when he opened the door though there were quite a few customers – mostly men – and he had almost the impression of intruding into a family party when he felt how the discreet curiosity of their sidelong glances formed a common question about his identity and intentions. Only in the desert did strangers arouse curiosity. Placing the tape recorder on the bar he waited till the waiter came to enquire.

  “A glass of red wine, please.”

  A rugged greybeard who was standing beside him and holding a glass of stout in his right nieve followed the transactions with a certain interest.

  “Whit would ye like, we have French an Italian?”

  “French, please.”

  “Are ye here on business tha-at late?”

  “Partly yes and partly no. I have always wanted to visit the Orkney Islands so when the university gave me a chance I took it eagerly. I hope to find a couple of people here who will be willing to say a few words to my tape recorder. We are collecting as many Scots accents as we can, and studying the phonetics behind them, that is the pattern of sound as it indicates how the tongue and the teeth and the vocal chords collaborate.”

  “Oh I see, tha-at soonds interestin.”

  “It is, it is, but while we have several examples of elderly people and children, I find that we miss samples of women in the age group around twenty-five to forty, for as you know the accent, especially the broadness of it, changes from generation to generation.”

  “Yeah, I ken Orcadian’s gaun tae die oot.”

  “I certainly do not hope so, for it’s the variety of accents that makes a language come alive, that gives people individuality and character, and that makes it worth while to travel. It has been such a delight to meet people here that I definitely will come back for a long holiday to explore as much as I can. There’s a natural warmth and a sense of humanity in the North that’s missing further South.”

  “I ken whit ye mean.”

  His dark look of dismay was directed towards the border. He might support independence for the right reasons as his rough red skin told of days and nights close to the cold waves of the North Sea – close to life and close to death.

  “Anyway, cheers!”

  They drank to each other’s health and to spite the downward trend.

  “The problem is that I have to take the ferry from Stromness to-morrow morning so I will have to find a couple of women born and bred here to-night, whose accents I can record.”

  “Ah, ye’re in a hurry, tha-at’s na good, but perhaps Mary here can help ye oot.”

  With the glass in his hand he followed him into the corner of an adjoining room where several people – talking confidentially – sat drinking around an oblong wooden table.

  “Listen, Mary, ma dear, here’s a gentleman comin fae the university tae collect samples o Orcadian accents, an he has plenty but lacks samples fae women aged twenty-five forty like, so I thought ye might help him oot.”

  Mary rose – freckled and fresh. Her hand was firm and dry – used to manual exertions but soft beneath the epidermis – and her eyes were warm as she took him in – a complete stranger – to the nook of her hearth – with a little wayward smile.

  “Tha-at’s interestin wi different accents, I ken. So I’d be tickled at that.”

  “Thank you very much. I’ll just fetch the tape recorder.”

  Congratulating himself on his good luck he went back to the bar – took the tape recorder – the note pad and the microphone – and – followed by the eyes of the regulars who appreciated a divertissement – however small – he returned to find an empty chair waiting beside Mary.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you but grateful for the favour you’re doing me, especially as I have to catch the early morning ferry from Stromness to-morrow and would hate to leave with an incomplete result, but I had better introduce myself, my name is Ralph Drummond.”

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “All you have to do is to say the words ‘Oh! Heaven! No!’ with as strong a note of dismay, frustration, annoyance and displeasure as you can possibly muster, but I would also have to ask if you have lived here all your life?”

  “I waas born in Stromness.”

  “Excellent. Number seven, Kirkwall.”

  The animated conversation became sporadic as the focus on Mary’s performance increased.

  “Oh Heaven! No!”

  He nodded to encourage her dramatic imagination.

  “Oh Heaven! No!”

  “Very good. It’s such a pleasure hearing the difference in the accents.”

  “But ye wanted two, and I ken Betsy here would like tae help ye, so ye’ d better sit doon on the other side o the teeble.”

  “Good evening, I wonder if I can ask you to do me the favour of saying the same words as Mary just said?”

  Betsy could be ten years older than Mary – she would have had several children – the features of her face – worn – satisfied lineaments. Her brown-green eyes were shrewd – the colour of sunny water in a woodland lake. With both feet on the rocky turf she had the energy of the Earth.

  “I’ll certainly help. I’m a teacher here, in Kirkwall Grammar School.”

  “What subjects do – ”

  “Languages, French and German.”

  “Do you think that these languages have had any influence on your Orcadian accent?”

  “They may have, of course, but I’m not myself aware of it and I don't think so.”

  “Do you think that your vocabulary would have been more likely to change than the melody of your accent? And incidentally, I find the melody in Scots a pure delight.”

  “I like it as weel, but you’re doubtless right. The melody caught as a child will remain.”

  “I think so too, and it’s precisely the melody that I’m studying.”

  “And whit do you propose to do?”

  “Make a map of the phonetic diversity according to four age groups – four to twenty, twenty-one to forty, forty-one to sixty, and sixty-one to eighty – in order to study the change in the various parameters and of course the rapidity of this change. Our basic aim is to see if it might be possible to stem the demise of the accentual diversity. Whatever its merits English is a killer language, from pole to pole, from Stavanger to Port Moresby.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know. The world is losin its diversity in more weys than one.”

  He wrote ‘Latin, French and German, Kirkwall.’

  “Number eight, Kirkwall. And I will ask you to say ‘Oh! Heaven, No!’ with as great an emphasis on annoyance and frustration as you can, just as you would to someone you know.”

  She took the microphone and smiled pleased by his eagerness to hear her response – and the expectations of the small group of people – who had known each other since childhood and hence cared for one another in various ways – intensified.

  “Oh Heaven! No! Oh! Heaven! No! Oh Heaven No!”

  “Excellent! There is a wealth of information, if analysed phonetically, in a single word. So I think we have enough material now, and as an appreciation of your goodwill I would like to know what you woul
d all like?”

  “Weel, I’ll have a ‘Raven Ale,’ and Mary, what’s yours?”

  “Also ‘Raven Ale.’”

  “One ‘Scapa’ an a ‘Red MacGregor.’”

  Standard favourites – which in time became identity patterns – a fisherman’s friend –

  “An a ‘Dragon Head’.”

  “All right.” I’ll try to remember it all, otherwise I’ll come back.”

  Returning to the bar he regretted that the smell of tobacco made the air stale.

  “Could I please pay for the wine I just had and for two ‘Raven Ales,’ one ‘Scapa,’ one ‘Red MacGregor,’ one ‘Dragon Head’ and for one more glass of French wine?”

  The waiter nodded and turned round to dive down behind the counter – and he had a short glimpse of the quiet routine of his life – evening after evening here in this twilit room – with boon companions whom he had known since childhood – his regular customers – their likes and their dislikes – their friendships and feuds – their destinies – born of character – their families – generation after generation since Rögnvaldur Brúsason. A genetic survey of the islands might have been done already or at least be in progress for comparison with Icelandic – Norwegian and Danish influence – with Picts and Kelts to add –

  “Twenty-nine fifty please.”

  “Here you are.”

  He had to go twice from room to room but his presence did not any longer arouse interest.

  “Thanks!”

  “Thanks, that was nice.”

  “So your collection is complete?”

  “At least for the time being, yes. But this is merely a pilot project. Cheers!”

  “Have you read the Orkneyinga Saga? I ask because I have not read it.”

  Having buried her mouth in foam she smiled brightly.

  “No, I must confess I have not read it, at least not yet.”

  Her honesty – her lack of presumptions. The bare rugged landscape – the wild open Sea.

  “It’s probably somewhat like the other sagas.”

  “Have you read them?”

  “Some of them. They’re quite laconic, bloody and expressive.”

  “Did Betsy perform weel?”

  “Excellently, befitting the stage.”

  “Oh no!”

  There it was even better – something of the same tone – the same melody – slightly Norwegian even – yes – Norwegian. The tonal quality of the /o/. He saw her face as the mask was torn away – full of anger – annoyance and rage – also anger at herself for having made such a faux pas. A gaffe? So it was also her view of herself as being infallible that had captivated him.

  “Well, I had better go back to my hotel. I have to be up early to-morrow. I must thank you again for your help and hospitality.”

  “And thanks for the drinks.”

  Waving good-bye he took his papers and the tape recorder. It had taken almost an hour.

  “I’m a little late, I think.”

  “It’s only the toast, the slices ye’ve had are cold, but I’ll ask for some more.”

  “Thanks a lot. Now I’m really hungry.”

  Filling his mouth with wine he breathed in and out while the chilled liquid soothed his sense of being alive – impatiently alive. The intonation of that /o/ had like a door – a drop of tea and a piece of cake – opened for her physical presence. Such a recapturing of a past reality would not have been possible using a conscious method to recall factual information according to the methods of De umbris idearum for example – the key was different – not conceptual and language based – depending on the left hemisphere – but like smell – on the right hemisphere and the limbic system. There was an earthy – rainy and fruity quality in Chablis – like live drops from a Summer cloud. He eased the heavy white meat out of the tail with the long fork and buttered the cold bread. There was no oil – but the waiter came with warm toast.

  “Splendid, thanks a lot, but would you by any chance have olive oil?”

  A little drop of oil and a little drop of lemon plus a minute pinch of pepper and a grain of salt on each soft pale green or Primrose yellow spoonful and then another mouthful of Chablis – of rain falling through the air upon the Earth. He was tired but hungry enough to continue eating. The butter – better though if it had been without salt – had melted on the toast but it still made the dense bits of Lobster tail mild and savoury – as if disguising the compact deadness of the flesh – by giving it a touch of the lightness of vegetable life. The claws had already been cracked – chrome orange and Venetian red – Astaxanthin – defying the heat – as clearly as in that stilleven by van Beyeren. Precision and complete attention to details. And the difference in size – an example of chirality in action. Handedness across clades. He ate slowly and yet without a pause – but soon the rich meat made him feel satisfied and full – almost too full to continue. It was quite hard to dig the meat out of the legs. Protection in an exoskeleton. It had also determined the maximum size of insects – the most prosperous of Nature’s inventions. When he had finished he sat a little while to let the wine purge his mouth of meaty flavours – but there were no finger bowls with lemon slices so he took some napkins from the other tables. Pure water was best in the end. Leaving a fair tip on the small plate with the bill he rose and paid both for the room and the food at the reception – to have more time in the morning as unexpected delays would upset his well-laid plans. After a warm shower to dissolve the strain the day had deposited in his muscles he went to bed – and in the glow between the sheets he felt inundated by the images of the events the past seventeen hours had forged – but the subconscious swell of her astonishment at his presence in the bed soon began to rock him asleep.

  VIII

  The noise of an emergency operation shattered his soul-nourishing sleep.

  “It’s seven o’clock now, sir.”

  The tyranny and the comfort of having habits.

  “Already? Thanks! I’ll come down to get breakfast.”

  Having probed the imperceptible scar in her upper lip with the tip of his tongue when the telephone intervened he was still living in the dream-myth of his fate. The ceaseless flow of sense impressions – which were received and developed below the threshold of conscious awareness – formed motives – determined prognostications and oriented intuitive extrapolations. His conscious awareness was merely a weather vane in their jet wind. Integrating the lost opportunity in his periconscious with associative deliberations he tainted the sweet water with tarry soap and the drowsiness of sleep before creeping into the armour of conventional decency – to descend a flight of beige-carpeted stairs and participate in the day-greeting ritual of strong black English tea – industrial toast and sugary Orange marmalade – but the morning light that came slanting in through a large gap in the spidery curtains was whetted by the salt in the air above the Sea. After breakfast he asked the receptionist to call a taxi and drove to Stromness the same way as he had come yestreen. The low uneven fells of the landscape – an infinitesimally slow reflection of the rapid swell of the all-surrounding Sea – seemed even more green now in the early eastern light – but the scarcity of trees gave it a empty air – as if missing depth – though around the farms there were clusters of Holme and Creeping Willows – and in the distance to the North two dark silhouettes suggested the sporadic presence of Junipers – and yet – in the late Neolithic trees had covered the islands – when Sun – Moon – stars – seasons – the Sea and sweet springs had been the sweet religion – though the God of the place was still present in the freshening wind that had left the Sky cerulean in all octants. Summoned by the lingering tradition and with plenty of time before the ferry was due to sail he walked – past the gneissic houses which had been built according to the same pattern and with the same flagstones – but with small differences to reflect the individuality or the prosperity of th
e owners – down along a rocky wind- and wave-worn coast. The undulating hills of Hoy lay stretched out across the horizon to the South and on the scattered skerries – covered by brown-green and still fresh wrack – pods of Grey Seals basked in the Sun together with their fluffy pups. Close to the shore there were here and there strange changes in wave patterns – some formed by the shape of the seabed – some by gusts or lulls in the wind and some probably by non-linear wave interactions. In front of a line of ragged stones the waves rose and broke with the sunlight behind them so that for half a second the rising wall of water became greenish and brilliant beneath the snowy foam. Aivazovsky’s Dyevyatiy Val had caught that glimpse of the light in the water which made the water translucent but not transparent – as when the Sun from behind illuminated a mist to glow in white – and this colour was akin to the colour of the green grapes in van Huysum’s Bloemen en vruchten – ethereal and almost other-worldly – alaukikaḥ – suggesting an unstruck – an anāhataḥ kenning or note or the insubstantial reality behind all that which met his eyes – such as the Kittiwakes there who – as bright white acrobats dancing on the wind – haunted the liminal interface of water and air in search of fish or scraps of food – as if to endow the scenery with the playful joy of a Summer day – but just as pleasant as it was now just as bleak it would be all through the long and dreary winter months – and yet – the light here was beyond compare and the liquid thrill of a Curlew tolled peace – past understanding – out over the vast shire of the western Sea. Reluctantly he retraced his steps to go on board the soulless ferry – but from the upper deck he could scrutinise the approaches to Scapa Flow in the binoculars – and shuddered suddenly in the wind as images of the sunken ships suggested that the ghosts of suffocated sailors were stirring in their sleep in Davy Jones’ lockers as if they wanted to rise up and meet him – but the green hills and the blue-sparkling Sea – that substantiated his world from horizon to horizon – stilled them to wait in their watery graves till the instant of transition when he would feel the abyss of emptiness open up under the soles of his feet and the air of death stir beneath his outstretched wings. The opposite brink showed no signs of Hen Harriers so there would be no Voles there either – and to the West the scars of human business had disfigured the landscape – but the destruction was comparatively less pronounced here than elsewhere due to the population density. Most of the old houses had with age acquired a patina that endowed them with the quality of the surrounding hills and cliffs so that they gave him the impression of having grown slowly – year by year – out of the all-nourishing greensward upon which they rested. As such they belonged to the landscape – by displaying the similarity between microcosmos and macrocosmos or fractals at different levels. They had now been sailing for a while and were turning westwards towards the open Sea and the long rolling waves that came in from the West South-West – but the pale scar left in their wake healed still slowly here in the shelter of the islands. To the South the Lighthouse of Hoy stood silhouetted against the moss-green hills behind – as a white warning about the dangers lying in wait at the border between two incompatible elements. Built here on dry land to ensure the safety of cargoes rather than that of sailors in eighteen hundred and fifty-one by Stevenson’s uncle – who also built Skerryvore – a far more magnificent construction of closely hewn stones – fitted onto the most treacherous of rocky surfaces washed green and smooth by the breaking seas. Imagination and innovation as opposed to the strength of the tide – the erosion of time – and the fine roots of Bladderwrack – kept afloat by pockets of air as Humans were kept puffed up by fixed ideas. The ferry was less than half full so he had most of the deck to himself. A prerequisite for a serene or an eirenic mood. Between the Sea and the Sky the light had a distinct clarity and brightness. Sea light and Sea air. A Cornflower Sky – but Flax blue in the horizon and azurite in front – Kuinji’s Chernoye More. The feeling and even the smell of the Sea changed the light. He could perhaps catch it – but he would have to come up here to take a swim in the Sky and catch it. Colours rather than form. His memory would be insufficient – his poor memory – bound to select salient points in accordance with preconceived notions while neglecting that which did not fit patterns reinforced by prior experience. The battle for a fresh view could never be won. It had to be fought continually. The freshness and fragrance of seaweed and salt – yes – here there was oxygen enough – and space in which to breathe. When the ferry had docked he went up to his car and drove back the way he had come – south-eastwards towards Latheron. Also here the landscape lacked trees like city skies lacked stars. Depth and interconnectedness had been ousted by flatness and fragmentation. He must have hoped for a miracle during the night – White Willows – Birches – Rowans – Oaks – and conifers for Black Grouse and Capercaillie. To the East there was indeed a stretch of Pines but otherwise there were only tufts of coarse grasses and grassy fields as far as the eye could reach. At Latheron he turned south-westward towards Inverness along the old rocky wind-swept coast and crossed the Kessock Bridge after one hour and forty-five minutes of flagging attention. The undercurrent of his yearning flowed against the conscious caprice of the changing scenery. Skimming Inverness he drove towards Nairn and deliberating whether he should stop or continue he flipped a mental coin and turned sharply South-east towards Forres – but that had presumably been ordained because he had conjectured that the accents in Nairn would resemble the accents in Inverness. There was not much here of the rather stern grassy nakedness and narrow beauty of Caithness – but the biological diversity was greater – more lush though strongly diminished by agriculture. The Culbin Forest to the North would – however – be a fine exception. Concentrating on the road ahead he kept his thoughts from returning to her accent and the melody of her voice. A wound craving the tip of a tongue – a succulent sweet of comfort. To the north lay Brodie Castle – as a feral crystallisation of the stance of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries – but a little later he was driving along the flow of the Findhorn River. All past history was alive in the present. Passing northward of Forres he continued to Elgin and saw in his mind’s eye fragments of the reliefs – both those in the British Museum and the ones that had been left in situ wherefore they had not been saved from further demolition by the true believers who true to the parochial scripture of their book had acted in Athēnai as they had done in Elāpuram. Homage to all such timely care and foresight – inspired no doubt by a fair degree of Bildung. If only the painting had been left – but the minute traces were enough for a comparatively authentic recreation. Paris or Alaksandu – drawing his bow – on the temple of Aphaia. But why had Wincklemann entertained such a puritanical and austere illusion? Because of severe ontological traumata – and they had resulted in concrete misconceptions for more than two hundred years. Errors passed on and on from generation to generation – not even like a genetic defect – but as a grey social hallucination that would have vanished in a single ray of honest sunlight. He came now through patches of forest with Oak and Birch Trees – small green plasters on the raw burnt skin of the land – but maybe also seeds of future hope – though less than one percent of the original forest cover was still intact. Just as enticing as it looked now just as forlorn and dismal it would look in January. The inescapable observation and the obvious conclusion. Was he warning himself about something? Elgin seemed to be quite a busy town – compared with Forres – and to the left – along High Street – the ruins of Elgin Cathedral – lay as then – destroyed by zealots – for the history of his species haunted the land – a curse from the violated Dea or Deus loci. Outside of Elgin the road turned south-eastwards and there was now good and comparatively old forest on both sides. The valley of the River Spey looked promising – there was a chance here – so he would definitely have to telephone Seymour to-night. They could stay at Fochabers. Homing in on the Sea he began to drive North-east through a small wood of Pines – Rowans and Beeches – but passing the north-going road to Portgordon h
e became hungry. A quick meal would do him good before he ventured out to interview the local lassies. Turning left he came – through Buckie – to the sea front and continued slowly East along a rock- and kelp-strewn coast. There was on the weather side of the road a white-washed restaurant with a modern look and lack of character – but faute de mieux he parked and went in to find a table waiting. The drive from Thurso had taken about three and a half hours – his lyf so short – his craft – but tacking in and out among the starched islands of glasses and cutlery a waitress approached to focus him in her attention.