She was a bonny sight, just bigger than my Khalida, with sides striped in dark red and white, and a silver head carved with scales and jagged teeth. A narrow blue glass eye like a snake’s stared over my head. There were shields along her length, in the same dark red, embossed with a pattern of three silver fish twined with Celtic lines. The short mast was of polished wood, with the horizontal yard hoisted to the top, and the red sail furled in loops below the crow’s nest basket. The raven pennant fluttered above her. At her stern, she had a silver forked tail, curved over to show the last dark-tipped dorsal spikes.
Her crew were equally magnificent. Everywhere I looked there were Vikings, with dark red cloaks, chainmail tunics over their kirtles, dark fur boots and rounded black helmets, ornamented in silver over the brow. It took me a moment to recognise my classmate Peter among them; I’d always thought of him as weedily built, but in his Viking rig-out he looked about ten feet tall, and broad in the chest as any raiding oarsman. The circular brooch that held his cloak had the same fish design as the shields. There were boys too, the sons of squad members brought along to enjoy the great day, ranging from teenage right down to a toddler in a miniature chain mail tunic, and their daughters were the gaggle of Viking princesses sitting in the galley, in dresses of dark red velvet.
The Guizer Jarl was a magnificent sight. The upright raven’s wings held by silver clasps to his helmet made him a foot taller than his followers, and he brandished a double-headed axe. His chain mail had a leather grid pattern over it, and brooches fastened his cloak. He stood steady in the moving galley, head high, axe raised. When it came to a halt, two Vikings scurried forward with a set of steps, and he swung himself down onto the ground, where the rest of the squad had made ceremonial lines at the door of the college. There was a storm of cheering: the Vikings rattled their axe-shafts on the ground, or clashed their shields together, and as he came through the crowd the Guizer Jarl paused to greet, to smile, to wave, like a royal procession. This was his day, after seventeen years of helping to organize the procession, to be spent visiting schools, the nursery, the old folks’ home with his squad. There’d be a senior citizens’ tea-and-homebakes afternoon in the boating club, then a night he’d never forget: the procession, the galley burning, and going round the halls with his squad afterwards.
For now, he led his Vikings into the college for their first engagement. We slipped into the foyer to join the college in welcoming our Jarl. There was a hearty singing of the traditional march, From grand old Viking centuries Up Helly Aa has come, followed by the squad’s own theme song, specially composed by members, with tongue-twister words and a refrain of ‘da boaniest jarl dat ivir der wis’. After that the head of the college made a lengthy speech, with a number of sly references to salmon farming and football teams, the Jarl replied, and at last they all trooped into the canteen for breakfast, and I was too busy to worry about anything else.
I was just coaxing the Viking princesses to more scrambled eggs with smoked salmon when a voice I recognised said, ‘Aye aye, Cass. Are you seen the galley yet?’
It was Shaela, one of my sailing pupils from Brae. She was looking scarily grown-up. Her long, dark hair was loose, held from her brow by two plaits; a white fur muff hung from a silver cord around her neck, and a tortoise-back brooch at her throat fastened a full-length cloak ornamented by two lines of Fair Isle-patterned braid in maroon and silver.
‘Shaela! I didna ken you! You look gorgeous.’
‘Me uncle Kenny is the Jarl. He’s a Hearts fan, so everything’s in maroon and white.’ She giggled. ‘The galley has a surprise – just you wait.’
It was after ten when breakfast was over. The Vikings formed their lines again, and the Jarl marched through them. Once he’d joined the princesses and miniature boy Vikings in the boat, he raised his axe. There was a huge cheer from the crowd. The dragon’s blue eyes flashed. It gave a wheeze, then smoke belched from its mouth, accompanied by delighted squeals from the princesses. Shaela gave me a grin and a thumbs-up. The Vikings formed a phalanx around the galley, the accordionists and fiddler took up their stations at the front, and played the opening bars of the Up Helly Aa march. I found the words uncoiling in my throat, though I wouldn’t have been able to say them, and joined in with a will as I followed the galley along Main Street to where my next spell of waitressing awaited.
The galley stopped at the Burn Beach for photographs: the Jarl in his galley, the princesses, the galley, the whole squad around the galley, personal photos of each squad member with his family. The flashes bounced off Reidar’s cream-painted walls. At last the band struck up again, and the Jarl squad marched off with a swirl of cloaks towards the waiting bus, which trailed streamers of maroon and white. They would sing their songs, and march round the school halls, and cheering bairns in home-made feathered helmets would respond with a peerie play, or a song of their own, and a great time would be had by everyone. We’d see the pictures in next week’s Shetland Times: a beaming Jarl presenting a miniature of his shield to the primary school’s head-teacher, or a bearded Viking hugging his granny at the care centre.
In the café, the rush began, as Jarl Squad families who’d been hanging around since nine this morning decided they needed a cup of coffee and a fancy. Neither Reidar’s official waitress, Amy, nor I, had time to look up until Reidar sent me out, just after twelve. ‘Go and take a break, Cass. Study the Bill.’
It was set up in pride of place, the traditional Bill, a board headed with a painting of a white and maroon galley under full sail, swirling in foaming seas beside Scalloway Castle, and a portrait of the Jarl holding his shield. Below, the muster time was given: The Guizer Jarl decrees that Guizers will muster at Lover’s Loan at 6.30 p.m. Procession will move off at 7 p.m. prompt. Beneath that was a paragraph of writing, with in-jokes highlighted in red. While I was out, I nipped into the shop and bought a programme, an A5 booklet with a colour photo of the Jarl on the front, and photos of all the squads inside. Kevin’s seemed to be called ‘Which Witch?’ – that answered my suspicions about what it was about, and why he’d wanted my black suit.
The squad bus returned at one, while I was in the midst of serving up plates of creamy yellow pumpkin soup and plump bacon rolls; it seemed they’d been invited to lunch aboard the blue and white accommodation barge for the Totale workers. After that, one woman told me, they’d be off to Hamnavoe school, then back to the boating club for the senior citizens’ party.
Reidar wasn’t staying open in the evening tonight; everyone would be out partying. He sent me home early: ‘For you have had a long day already, and you must be able to dance tonight.’
It was still daylight as I set off back to the pontoon. The quarter moon hung like a child’s cut out against the darkening sky. Music echoed across the water from the boating club, and a lot of cheering. It was the traditional Fire Festival senior citizens’ party, and by the sound of it a very good time was being had by all. I made a cup of tea and wriggled into my berth to rest for a bit. It would be a long night.
It was a bonny, bonny evening. The sky above the hills was midnight blue, with the stars ice-cold, and the planets bright as diamonds: Venus, Mars, Jupiter. High in the west the moon sailed, a golden halfpenny. A cold breath of air touched our faces as we stood on the shore road waiting for light-up. A crack, and the maroon fired red sparks into the air; the streetlights dwindled to blackness.
We smelt the torches before we saw them, a drift of paraffin, then the fixed brightness of the flare behind the shop and houses gave way to red flickering and the billowing smoke rising. The band began playing, but was drowned by cheers as the procession began to move, the trail of smoke and the red glow in the sky silhouetting the waterfront houses as if they were aflame.
I don’t know what Gavin had expected, but his mouth dropped open as the first Vikings marched towards us, the galley swaying behind them on its metal trolley. ‘They’re like real Viking raiders. No wonder they struck terror into all the coast-dwellers. Imag
ine seeing that lot charging up the beach towards you.’ Then the policeman came in. ‘Those axes must be in breach of the offensive weapons act.’
‘Bound to be,’ I agreed.
‘And what about the torches?’ He watched as a scrap of sacking detached itself from one torch and swirled upwards, glowing red. ‘On a windy night there must be sparks everywhere.’
‘Health and safety is that you watch the back of the person in front of you, and put out any sparks that land on them.’
The galley’s smoke-belching mechanism was still working; the blue eyes lit up balefully. The first Vikings were last year’s Jarl Squad, mustering the procession; then came the galley, surrounded by its maroon-cloaked warriors. The brass band marched behind it, between the rows of torches. Every time it paused to change tune there was a roar of ‘Uggi uggi uggi!’ from the head of the procession, answered by ‘Oy oy oy!’ from the tail.
‘Uggi?’ Gavin murmured in my ear.
‘Traditional Viking war cry,’ I lied briskly. ‘And have you noticed the half-bottles being quietly passed round? Hit’s a dry festival, du kens.’
‘I’d noticed.’
‘At least they allow women in this one,’ I said consolingly. ‘All the country ones do. It’s just Lerwick that’s still men only. The next South Mainland one is even having a woman Jarl.’
Behind the Vikings came the rest of the guizers, a double snake of flickering orange torches. There were a hundred and fifty of them, made up of squads of around a dozen people, each dressed for their ‘act’. The Jarl Squad was squad 1; they were followed by furry creatures mixed with council workers in blue boiler suits and yellow hard hats with SIC in black tape on the front; the next squad was obviously based on local happenings, for the glinting masks were photographs blown up to life-size, with ganseys, jeans and yellow boots below. There were doctors and nurses next, the nurses acted by men with curly blonde wigs and enormous false breasts. I risked a glance at Gavin, but his face was carefully blank, as if he was on duty. There were black and white suits next, then men with space hoppers. The next lot were in black, with the alphabet letters on their chests, and after them came a bunch in coloured hoodies with scarves tied round their foreheads, kung fu-style. Then my heart gave a jolt, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. There, in the procession, was the devil-figure that had surfaced in my dreams since the autumn, even though I knew he was no more than a costume. Several green-faced witches capered behind him. Gavin touched my arm and nodded across the road. ‘There we are.’
It was indubitably us: Gavin in his kilt, with an orange ‘See you Jimmy’ wig, and me in a dark boiler suit and lifejacket with CASS written down one side. They’d done my scar with lipstick, and made me a good deal curvier.
‘Just wait till I see Kevin,’ I said. Just a fun, indeed.
‘Your classmates? This must be Socks the moonwalking pony.’
The fur suits were chestnut, dapple grey, black and white, with flowing tails and horse heads worn like hats, so that the faces peered out from the pony’s chest. Among them were men in butcher aprons and white net hats, with huge choppers tucked into their belts. ‘I don’t think I want to ask,’ I said.
The next lot made the buxom nurses seem positively tame. It was some sort of beauty competition, with the men playing the women hamming it up for all they were worth. Low-cut blouses clung to breasts like nuclear missiles, there were golden curls, fishnet tights and enough make-up to paint a sixty-footer. Last of all – I knew there would be one – was the squad who’d gone for black face paint and nylon afro wigs. Some were visibly what even I recognised as the Village People, and the others were in a one-piece jumpsuit, pale blue with wide lapels. I watched from the corner of my eye as Gavin’s mouth dropped. ‘It’s considered perfectly okay up here.’
He shook his head. ‘So long as they know not to do it on the mainland.’
The galley had reached the top of the boating club slip now, and while it was being manoeuvred into position, and the barrel-float raft was detached from its wheels, the Jarl squad led the long procession back down inside itself, so that there were four lines of torches flickering past us. The heat stung my cheeks. As they marched, the snow began again, great white flakes that caught the rising torchlight and gleamed like rubies as they fell. Now as the Jarl Squad came back up to the head of the procession they continued, to form a line along the breakwater. The marching torches stilled, the flames rose upwards. The band had gone up to its platform on the boating club balcony, and loudspeakers blared the march across the water:From grand old Viking centuries Up Helly Aa has come. Then they changed to a slow, proud air: Waves the raven banner o’er us, as our Viking ship we sail … When it ended there was silence broken only by the waves against the pier. The Jarl stepped forward in his boat and raised his axe once more.
‘Three cheers for the galley builders!’
The torches jerked skywards as the guizers cheered. The sound echoed off the houses at the other side of the bay.
‘Three cheers for the torch makers!’
One of the Jarl squad stepped forward for the next one. ‘Three cheers for the Guizer Jarl!’
The last cheers were led by the Jarl again: ‘Three cheers for Up Helly Aa!’ He clambered out of his warship and gave her a last, long look. The bugle sounded and there was another moment of stillness before the long line of fire along the waterfront began to flow forward to the galley. Each torchbearer came up to her, threw his great matchstick, and ducked back; we heard the thump and rumble of the torches being thrown into her, then her timbers crackling. She caught quickly; the heat was so intense that the last of the procession had to throw their torches in from ten metres back. A heave on the ropes that led seaward, and she rushed down the slip into the water, embracing her own element for her first and last voyage. The flames that blazed from inside her turned the still water to molten gold.
The band struck up: The Norseman’s home on days gone by, was on the rolling sea … The whole village sang her lament, watching as the fire crept stealthy fingers up the mast, caught the sail; it exploded in flames, leaving the crow’s nest charred and the raven banner starting to blacken. The orange tongues licked up the spined neck and around the coiled tail until she was a mass of fire. Glowing sparks rose up into the sky. Then the burning torches made their way through her sides first, leaving the black oars like ribs, until they too dissolved in the white heat. The mast fell at last, the curved tail, the dragon head, with a final hiss at her death blow, and the proud galley was a bonfire floating in the sea.
Gavin gave a long sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath. I slipped my arm into his, and we stood there for a moment, silent. Behind us, the chattering crowd began to disperse: the squads to their bus, and whichever pub they’d chosen to get their full costume on and fortify themselves further before their first hall, the folk to get out of their spark-proof jackets and warmest breeks and into their party clothes. Nobody in Scalloway would be staying home tonight. A confusion of buses blocked the street.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see Reidar. ‘I’ve made hot chocolate,’ he rumbled, ‘with a touch of brandy in it to keep out the cold. Come aboard.’
We trooped after him. Sule’s cabin was blissfully warm. I relaxed into the plastic cushions with a sigh.
‘It was a good burning,’ Anders said. ‘I had seen photos, of course, but they do not give an idea of the scale of it all, of how spectacular it is.’
‘And now we dance all night?’ Gavin asked.
‘In between squad acts.’
I drank my chocolate and left the men to it while I slipped aboard Khalida to change and make an attempt at make-up. Maman had given me the essentials, but I wasn’t convinced. Foundation just seemed to make my tanned skin an unhealthy colour, although it did smooth the scar a little, and I hadn’t quite got the hang of how much blusher, or where exactly to put it. I didn’t achieve the porcelain doll look that would mask every young girl’s face in the hall tonigh
t, but Gavin would know I’d tried. I didn’t own any jewellery, but my dress was pretty, black sprigged with flowers. Georgette, Maman had called it, a light material that swirled around my ankles and flowed like water as I moved. It was only two hundred yards to the boating club, but I wasn’t slithering through the snow in sandals. I pulled my rubber boots back on and put my sandals in my pocket. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to dance in them, but I could kick them off and go barefoot if need be.
Being a well brought up Scot, Gavin didn’t whistle or compliment, but his smile told me he appreciated my effort to look bonny. ‘Time to go?’
‘We don’t want to miss the first act.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
We gave our tickets in at the door, found space at a table that had a front-on view of the central space, where the acts would take place, but wasn’t too close to the band, and settled down to read the programme. It gave a transcript of the Bill I’d admired that morning, a list of the squad names, suitably cryptic, and photographs. There were twelve squads in all. I pointed Kevin out. ‘We share an engine. He was the one being me.’
A microphone wheezed into life; the band leader leaned forward. ‘Well, folk, let’s start the night off with a Boston. Let’s see everyone on the floor noo, for a Boston Two-step, and dinna say you don’t ken it, fir I winna believe that. Take your partners, please, for a Boston Two-step.’
I thought the Boston was ingrained in me from my youth, but I wasn’t going to be first on the floor; and besides, I had three men here to share my dances among, and I wasn’t going to ask one up first. The policeman’s girlfriend … Gavin turned as if he’d read the thought. ‘I’ll ask you to dance the minute there are enough couples to keep us from being conspicuous. Freya warned me that the Shetland version of every country dance is different from the Scottish one.’
The Body in the Bracken Page 24