‘Well, when you get to Hamnavoe, have a look in the for’ard port locker, under the bag of ropes.’
Naturally I wasn’t going to wait until Hamnavoe. I went for’ard in the cabin, burrowed my free hand into the locker and felt the smooth coldness of a bottle. It was real champagne, with a little label saying ‘Congratulations, Deck Officer Lynch’ in Gavin’s spiky handwriting.
I was speechless. ‘Found it?’ Gavin asked in my ear.
‘Yes. When did you plant this?’
‘Oh, my last visit. I had faith you’d do it.’
‘I nearly didn’t,’ I said, and told him about the imaginary cadet.
‘Our examiners are wonderful. Have a good sail.’
‘Speak to you from Hamnavoe, if there’s a signal.’
It was a good sail. The spring sunshine was warm in my face as I motored out of the channel leading to Scalloway, the sunlight dancing on the water. The wind was what the forecast had promised, force four gusting five, with the waves curling white, and fleecy cumulus chasing each other in a china-blue sky. I came around the last buoy, slackened speed and went forward to hoist the mainsail, then came back to the cockpit to trim it, and switch off the engine. Silence flowed in, blessed silence after those last intense hours in the classroom, with twenty snuffling, coughing, shuffling young men, and the lecturer’s never-stopping voice. The water ran under Khalida’s forefoot and broke at her stern; the wind tugged the rigging. I unrolled my new jib and set it in the perfect curve it was designed for, and Khalida surged forward. Cat came out to crouch in his usual place in the shelter of the cabin, paws braced against the waves, and I leaned back against the cockpit side, tiller warm under my hand. I was back where I belonged.
We passed below the drying skerry south of the north cardinal, and threaded our way between the scatter of little islands and rocks: Papa; Oxna; the Cheynies to the south; Linga and Hildasay to the north. The Vikings had named them all: Papa was the island of the priests, Linga the island of heather. Now our way was clear ahead, with the crouched headland of Skelda Ness on our starboard bow, and behind it the long run up the west side: green Gruting Voe, the watchtower of Vaila, the red cliffs of Watsness. The swell would bounce off the cliffs, so I kept well off. The three-shelved island of Foula floated to port, its base wreathed in mist. Khalida rested her shoulder on the waves and forged steadily forwards, the spray sliding away from her white prow and curling over level with her mast. I heated up a pan of soup and ate a cheese roll at 13.00, and followed them with a mug of tea, then sat back and watched the cliffs roll past. Rugged, spiked walls they were, black with spray below, yellowed with lichen above, and the swell foaming white over the jagged reefs at their base. The seabirds were already pairing off; I got out my spyglasses to look at them, kittiwakes, blackbacks, herring gulls, all paper-white specks two by two on the cliff ledges. Sandness Hill was weathered gold in the sun, but in Dale, where there was a deep geo running down to the sea, the grass was summer-bright.
An hour later, we passed the pale cliffs round the corner from Sandness, on the upper corner of the west, and Papa Sound opened before us, the sea-road in to Swarback’s Minn, the sheltered hand-shape of the Atlantic whose fingers ended in the townships of Brae, Voe and Aith. I couldn’t quite see Dad’s house, on the sheltering island of Muckle Roe, but the sight of my home waters reminded me. I checked my phone and found two texts: “Congratulations, Cassie! Knew you could do it. Love Dad” and “Felicitations, Officer Lynch xxx” from Maman.
We sailed steadily northwards. On our port side now was the wild Atlantic, with only the jagged outline of the dangerous Ve Skerries between us and the toe of Greenland. To starboard lay the red cliffs and sea-stacks of Papa Stour, with the smell of the growing grass blowing from the land. In summer fog, in the days of the haaf fishing out in open boats, the Papa men used to know they were approaching home by the smell of the flowers. We were sailing fast, but the current was pushing us back, so that we made only four knots over ground. It was 16.00 as we passed Fogla Skerry, on the upper corner of Papa, and turned towards the smudged hills on the north eastern horizon.
I could just make out the shapes. Those three pillars were the Drongs, then north from them was Dores Holm, a humped island where the sea had broken through to create an arch. The cliffs of Eshaness came next, then, out to sea, the cone shape of Muckle Ossa.
Another mug of tea brought me halfway across St Magnus Bay. 17.30. Now I could see the white and mustard lighthouse (Fl. W.12 secs), and the swell of foam at the cliff bottom. Sunset was at half past six, but there would be light on the water for an hour after that, besides the waxing crescent moon; we’d make it in.
I made a third mug of tea and settled back, my body relaxed, my mind always busy, watching the set of the sail, the movement of the wind across the water, feeling the tiller under my hand. We surged on until the knobbled cliffs were only two cables away, with the sun-green waves pounding at their feet, hurling themselves up the black rock and falling back in milk-white streams. Their tops, way above Khalida’s mast, were just touched by the last rays of the sun, the gold spots in the black lava catching the light and making the rock seem afire.
Muckle Ossa was my guide now, the cone-shaped island off Eshaness. You couldn’t see it from land, but it was actually two islands. The outer one had an arch in it, and it was this I was watching for. The passageway into Hamnavoe wasn’t easy to spot from sea, and there were rocks running out on both sides of the entrance, but I knew that when the arch opened behind me, I could run in with my stern kept square on to that. Nearly ... nearly ... then at last, through the archway, I caught sight of the water, gleaming yellow from the setting sun. I furled the jib and set the engine going, then went forwards to drop the main, and puttered between the skerries, using the pilot book’s meid: the prominent rock lined up with the old house on shore.
I tied up at the pier in the last of the light, double checked my ropes, and stowed the mainsail properly. Cat emerged from the cabin, sniffed the outdoors, then jumped ashore for a foray on the pier. I stood on the forehatch for a moment, breathing in the sweet air, filled with the green of grass, the seaweed uncovered by the falling tide, the salt of sea-encrusted rock. This was country Shetland, with one single-track road running down to the stone pier, and another running around the other side of the bay to the cluster of houses tucked in behind the headland, their window-squares shining gold in the dusk. From them, green fields ran down to the shore, grazed by small, sturdy Shetland sheep in shades of black, rust and grey. Above the fields was the scattald, the shared hill grazing, with the heather springing into its summer pine green. The folk here would have been self-sufficient once, between the animals and crops on the land and the harvest of the shore and sea. Now the narrow line of tarmac connected them with the outside world of Tesco home deliveries, and sheep grazed on the rigs their ancestors had fertilised with kishies of seaweed. The half-moon above the hill was the colour of old brass.
Below, the cabin was blissfully warm. I put the washboards up and opened the engine box, then fried up the liver and onions I’d got for tea. Cat slipped through the forward hatch, whiskers twitching. We ate together in the gold lamplight, with blessed silence around us: country silence, made more still by the shushing of a wave against the pier, a sheep coughing up on the hill. It was strange, afterwards, not to have to revise any more. I played a solo game of Scrabble before phoning Gavin. He sounded distant, busy, with the opening salvos of his trial in full swing; or perhaps it was I who was retreating, eight sea hours closer to Norway.
I wanted this to work, for us to be together the way Maman and Dad were now, in a shared life, each keeping the best of their own world ... on the thought, I reached for my phone. Maman would be finished her show now.
‘How did it go?’
‘Very well. We performed in the Great Hall, a most beautiful panelled room, lit by chandeliers, and the audience was very receptive. But I’m too old for this touring, I think. Artistes are so temp
eramental.’ Maman sighed down the wires, forgetting that she could do a good display of temperament herself. ‘Now Kamilla believes herself a sensitive. She is seeing ghosts. This is what comes of bringing people to Scotland, where there is a phantom around every corner.’
The ghost o’ a Viking’s been seen walking the hills ...
‘What sort of ghosts?’
‘It is her dead brother.’ There was a hint of scorn in Maman’s voice. She modulated it to sympathy. ‘It seems we are near the anniversary of his death, so I suppose he is much in her mind. He died when they were children, but she believes he is her guardian angel now, and has come to warn her that she is in danger. She found a book open at a page where one character was giving another a warning, and a rose in her room changed from white to red, like blood.’
‘Bryony playing tricks?’
‘Oh, it could well be. Or Adrien, trying to frighten her back to him – he fancies himself as a mystic – no, as a medium.’ Generations of French Catholics resonated distaste in her voice. ‘He plays these stupid games with a glass and letters, and believes he has contacted the dead. But I think Bryony is more likely, as they are sharing a room, so I have asked Caleb to take her out to supper, and pay her a bit of attention. That will annoy Kamilla, who also likes him, but we cannot please everyone.’
I tried to remember where she was. The Hill of Tarvit House, near St Andrews; yes, they might be lucky, and find a restaurant still open. ‘I was very good,’ I said. ‘Caleb guessed my age at twenty. I didn’t disillusion him.’
Maman sighed. ‘Ah, these young men. As if it is likely I would see forty again – but he is very sweet to think me so young.’
‘You look it,’ I assured her. ‘Especially in those Helen of Troy jewels.’
‘Ah, yes, gold is very sympathetic to the complexion. Now your father and I are going to take a bottle of champagne to the library in this nice house, and have an after-show drink in peace, without worrying about artistes, and their imaginings.’
‘Have fun.’ I felt a shudder down my spine as I rang off. Ghosts ...
What I wis, I amna,
What I am, you ken na,
Dem at loved me, think o’ me;
Yet dem at see me shrink fae me
... a ghost
Thursday, 26th March
Tide Times at Hillswick, UT and at Dover
High Water00.32, 1.8m;02.50
Low Water13.05, 0.5m;10.17
Tide Times at Mid Yell, UT and at Dover
High Water15.00, 2.0m;15.18
Low Water20.57, 1.1m;22.33
Sunrise05:50
Moonrise09:05
Sunset18:28
Moonset01:31
First quarter moon
I dinna eat, yet I grow fat;
I dinna fant, yet I wear awa’,
Look up ee day, I amna dere,
Yet twa weeks mair, I’m a silver baa.
Chapter Four
Magnie arrived at half past eight, just in time for breakfast, dropped off by an ancient pick-up truck that sounded like a fifties rocket taking off. I recognised it as belonging to Jeemie, one of the Brae yachties, whose Starlight I crewed in, and came out to say hello.
‘I’d a come wi’ you,’ Jeemie said, ‘but that I have to take me granddaughter to her driving lesson at half ten. Lerwick.’ He gave a dismissive snort. ‘Have a good sail, now.’
‘Thanks to you,’ Magnie said. He sniffed appreciatively. ‘Lass, is that you welcoming me wi’ bacon?’
‘It’ll be a long day.’ I turned the bacon under the grill, put a couple of slices of bread in the frying pan and lit the burner under the kettle. ‘Departure 09.15. We’re all set to go, so we have time to fill us up.’ I added the eggs to the frying pan, grated some cheese over them, and got the plates out. ‘Dip dee doon.’
Magnie sat and reached for the pilot book, which I’d left lying open. ‘We’ll be going straight nor-east? Outside the Uyea Baas, outside the Ramna Stacks.’
‘Outside everything,’ I agreed.
It was eyeball navigation: straight out of the bay, then turn right and keep sailing, aiming at a point at the outside of the Ramna Stacks, which stuck out of the water like teeth in a witch’s mouth. We took half-hour turns at steering, and kept ourselves warm with cups of tea from the flask, and a tin of stew in rolls at lunchtime, and it wasn’t long after four o’clock when we found ourselves looking down through Bluemull Sound, with Yell to port and Unst to starboard. I stowed the sails while Magnie started the engine, and we putted gently into the curving arms of Lunda Wick.
It was a bonny place, with two beaches of golden sand separated by a low headland. On the northernmost side there was the remains of a broch, a massive circular wall overgrown with grass; to the south, a spread-out graveyard with the ruins of a kirk above the pale beach.
‘St Olaf’s Kirk,’ Magnie said. ‘It dates back from Viking times, twelfth century. It’s fairly ruined now. There’s notices on it, warning folk no’ to go in, but when I was a bairn there was nothing like that, so we swarmed aa ower.’ He waved an arm over the bay. ‘Aa this was a Viking settlement. One o’ the houses they excavated is up on the hill above the broch, Underhoull. There’s another house down by the beach, and up above the kirk, where the House of Lund is, that big ruin there, then they found three mair.’
I checked we were well clear of the rocks extending from the headland, and reduced the engine to a murmur. ‘So there could be anything in the ground there.’
‘Well, no’ in the immediate site, they checked that.’ Magnie looked ahead, assessing the bay. ‘I’d steer a point more to the right, lass. Maybe the reputation o’ the Old House o’ Lund has keepit the treasure hunters out so far. The devil’s guarding it.’
I slanted him a sceptical look. ‘Oh, yea?’
Magnie settled himself back into storytelling mode, eyes still shifting between the approaching beach and the depth sounder. ‘It began wi’ the grandson o’ the Scott that built it. He got fed up o’ folk tethering their ponies on his girse while they were at the kirk, so he persuaded one o’ the lads to be tarred and feathered, and a tail put on him, and this lad jumped into the kirk while the minister was preaching, and gluffed him that thoroughly that he would never preach in the kirk again. Well, that’s how it came to be disused. Then they said een o’ this Scotts had sold his soul to the devil, and to make it clear he’d claimed him, Auld Clootie put his footprint on the doorstep, a clear cloven hoof. It’s there to this day, but you canna see it, for the folk were that afraid o’ it, the laird had the step turned over.’
‘A serious deterrent for modern heathens,’ I agreed.
‘Five metres depth,’ Magnie said, returning to reality. ‘Will you take the helm while I rig up the anchor?’
With Magnie on the foredeck, anchoring was easy. We dropped the hook in five metres of water so clear that you could see it lying on the bottom, and in less than half an hour we were rowing ashore, with Cat in his basket. We beached the dinghy on the strip of pale sand and let Cat out, then wandered along the shore towards the Viking sites.
They’d certainly chosen a good place. The beach was two hundred metres long, a smooth curve to a scatter of rocks, then a deeper inlet under the knobbled headland, with a stony ridge to the back of it, and a burn running through the middle of it from a marshy area that was already glinting pale gold with the first patches of celandine. The land around was green with fresh grass, bigger parks enclosed by grey drystane dykes. We walked to the headland, with Cat scampering ahead of us, and climbed up until we could see into the next bay.
‘These outcrops, see,’ Magnie said, indicating the half-buried rocks at our feet, ‘I was aye told they were Viking warrior graves. The archaeology folk scanned them, and thought this een might be one, right enough.’
It just looked like the bones of the land weathering through the grass to me, but tradition was often right. ‘Where are the houses?’
Magnie swivelled to face north-east.‘See th
e broch ruins up there? That’s Upper Underhoull, just to the right of it, and the lower house is just above the beach here, just past the fence.’
I looked across. The broch was clearly visible, the two-metre high remains of what had once been a massive, double-walled tower. ‘There were little cells inside the walls,’ I recalled, from picnics we’d had at Jarlshof when I was peerie. ‘And tunnels that Inga and I explored with a torch the custodian had given us.’
Magnie nodded. ‘Souterrains,’ he said. ‘That’s a bit older as the broch – Bronze Age. There’s een here an’ aa. And come you and look at this, lass.’
He led me downwards to the beach, and pointed to the grassy bank overhanging the sand. ‘Boat noosts.’
It was the Shetland way of keeping boats safe through the wild weather: a ten-foot V cut into the earth, where the boat would be tied down between sheltering banks. These were more elaborate than I’d seen, faced with stones to stop the earth tumbling over the boat in a downloosing of rain. ‘These are really from Norse times?’
Magnie nodded. ‘Come up and look at the hooses.’
We strolled on to the lower house: a long, wide depression in the ground, with two layers of grass-covered stone enclosing it. It was bigger than I’d have expected, not far off the size of a crofthouse, some eighteen metres long by five wide. ‘They were a poor hand at walls,’ I said, looking at the curve.
‘The curve proves it’s an early een. The first settlers, they just built a couple o’ rows o’ stone, and used their boats as a roof.’ That made sense: protection for both people and boat, and none of the hassle of trying to make a roof in a treeless landscape.‘Tenth or eleventh century.’ Magnie waved an arm upwards. ‘The one above was much the same age. Neighbours, or maybe the same family, with the parents down here, and a son who was doing well for himself built his own house up above, just the same way they do now. See, too, the way the land’s been terraced.’
Ghosts of the Vikings Page 4