The Rings of Poseidon
Mike Crowson
Copyright 1985 Mike Crowson
Smashwords Edition 2010
The Rings of Poseidon
Prelude
The drum beat kept a time which was easy for an oarsman to follow, even one as new to the task as me, and we slipped round the maze of canals at a steady pace. The city is a good walk from the sea but the main channel is wide, straight and deep and the ship made it with no alarms. Once out in open water we shipped our oars,the crew hoisted our sail and the helmsman set a course round the island and across the true ocean, for that was where 'Gate of the Sun' was bound.
I am - was - probably the best smithy and metalworker in the whole of the city, of the country perhaps. There may be the odd one as good as me, I suppose, but none better. I'm not a young man any more and I've worked in metals all my life, and it's thirty summers or more since I began my apprenticeship. Now I flee for my life.
I started the usual way, casting the rough blocks of metal into the blades of swords, for the hands of the more expert craftsmen, who heated and hammered them into shape, so that the metal took an edge. As I became a more expert craftsman myself I began to specialise in finer work. I set up alone, making lamps for homes and temples, thuribles and containers for incense, carefully hammered into shape and all of them delicately decorated.
In later years I have had time to experiment with other ores, heating them and noting the effects. The ones that melted easily I tried mixing and working. I found some which were too soft for swords but good for jewellery; some I decorated with painted clay and heated again, and others were very tough and took a fine edge. I never had a mate. I lived alone and metals were my life and my hobby - I think that's why I became so skilled.
So how does an established, skilled, respected craftsman like me become a wanted man, hunted in the city and forced to flee for safety across the true ocean? No matter: I slowly, carefully, thoroughly, angrily called down the wrath of the gods upon that corrupt little man and his overweaning, usurping, insidious power I had fled to escape. I cursed him to his doom.
All the cursing made me feel a little better, but probably did him no harm at all. Eventually the top of the highest mountain fell from sight, the wind dropped and we got out the oars again.
After the noon break on the sixth day there was a sudden sound. The sea and air shook. The sky began to fill with the smoke of a great volcano far astern and the sea became an uneasy calm. There was a kind of greasy swell, like dirty water when you cool heated metal in it. Then a great wind came and we drove before it: a hot and fiery wind and the ship sped over the water, hastened by that fierce furnace of a blast. But fast as we travelled we could see a great wave coming towards us even faster. A wave like a great and towering cliff. A wall of water many mastheads high.
I do not know whether the high priest was yet struck down, nor whether my curses had been heeded, but the gods were none too pleased about something!
Chapter 1
The woman leaned into the wind, tugging up the zip of her light blue waterproof jacket, and strode angrily across the wet, tussocky grass. A fine rain was swirling in from the sea just beyond the rising hillock ahead of her, wreathing like smoke in the chill breeze, soaking her hair and running down her face and jacket to complete the misery of her anger.
"Racist pig," she thought to herself yet again, "and sexist. Damn it, he only did this to me because I'm a woman and black".
In fact, though Alicia Graham was a tall and intelligent woman of Afro-Caribbean extraction, at that moment she was faced by problems that were essentially Anglo-Saxon. Well, Celtic or pre-Celtic, anyway
Just at the crest of the rise was a hollow bearing the signs of recent digging, and what looked at first sight like a pile of stones. In spite of her state of mind, Alicia couldn't help at least a cursory glance. She saw at once the arrangement of the stones was not random, but the work of human hands and very old. Her obsession with her subject overcame her resentment towards this particular assignment and she looked, felt, absorbed the ever so slight remains.
The wall was made up of almost unshaped stones, matched together in the remnants of a very primitive, almost primeval structure. The digging - 'Can't call that an excavation,' Alicia thought, with a mental sniff of disdain - showed the wall going down into the sand for several feet. She considered this. 'Perhaps,' she reflected, 'the ruin simply silted up with sand blown from the beach. At any rate there's enough wind!' she added as an unspoken thought, tugging unnecessarily at the zip of her Cagoule. Interest had evaporated her anger, at least temporarily, as she applied her mind to the excavation of the site.
Alicia turned from the comparative shelter of the hollow to the crest of the low hill and looked towards the sea. It was an uninviting, cold grey with flecks of white. Across Scapa Flow you could see Mainland through the misty rain. "Not the mainland," she thought. "Just Mainland, the main island of the Orkneys."
It hadn't really been a rough crossing, only miserable, with this chilly, gusty wind and the steadily soaking drizzle. She stood, looking at the sea but with her mind elsewhere, back at the University with Professor Harrington, thinking of her blazing row with him....
"Miss Graham," said the tetchy little man, "you are lucky in the extreme that the department has funds to send you anywhere at all. Our benefactor, if I can call a major company that, has stipulated that one of the investigations supported by them must be in Scotland." With an air of finality he added, "And that's the one I've given you."
Alicia Graham, however, had set her heart on an excavation close to the Jordan/Israel border. Not only would the weather have been better and the site itself established and interesting, but she had been there before during her post-graduate years and felt sure she would be returning.
The Professor had made his choice of who was to lead the Orkneys team from three doctorate students, on the basis of which one was least likely to create a fuss about an unpopular assignment. His choice was inevitably based on the whole of his prejudices and experiences which, in turn, reflected his background and career as an elderly academic. Possibly Alicia's assessment of him reflected much truth. At any rate, she had worked herself up into a fine rage for this interview and she was not ready to be easily put off.
"There's a matter of my team," she said, "You've given me a fine collection haven't you? A romantic nervous wreck on the rebound from a broken relationship, a cultural refugee who'll try anything to stay away from home a little longer, a pimply pratt who's a double failure and a soccer hooligan to look after the technical side."
"You aren't going near any soccer matches." said Professor Harrington somewhat lamely as she paused to draw breath. He wilted a little before her wrath. Alicia was exaggerating, but there was again an element of truth in what she said now, as there had been in her assessment of her Professor. The latter was beginning to wonder whether he had been mistaken in his choice and underrated Alicia's capacity for fighting back.
The sea hissed on the sandy beach of this part of Hoy and the wind would, no doubt, have blown sand around the dunes, had everything not been soaked by the driving drizzle. She pushed her hair back from her face and realised how wet she had become. This side of the high island shelved towards the sea and should have been protected from the prevailing westerly wind by the higher western slope. The present sodden wind was from the North East. Alicia faced it reflectively. She had exaggerated the personal deficiencies of her team.
"Let me introduce the members of your team", said the Professor. "This is Gillian Meadows. Miss Meadows has taken a year off from study, but she proposes to rejoin the post-graduate course this year."
"How tactful", thought the tall, fair haired girl, wryly. "What he means is dropped out, messed up my life and tried to end it." It was only her determination to start again where she had left off that kept her from feeling hysterical just coping with meeting these people. "I don't know if I can handle the work," she thought, as she shook hands with the West Indian woman who was going to be in charge of the dig, then added to herself, primly and severely, "Of course you can manage it."
"Miss Meadows wants to specialise in the Bronze Age and later Stone Age. This expedition will be valuable experience for her," said the professor, expanding on his introduction.
"I'm looking forward to this project very much," said Gillian, but she was expressing an enthusiasm she didn't entirely feel. "I hope I can keep my mind on my work now," was the thought pounding through her brain. "I don't know for certain I can cope yet. Still, I've got a month or so to sort myself out yet before we start, and I'm damned well going to try."
Gillian listened to the splatter of rain against the caravan window with each gust of wind. It wasn't a storm outside: the wind was no more than an unpleasantly stiff breeze and the rain was no more than a heavy drizzle blown on the wind. "But I didn't fancy going out with Alicia," she thought. "Not that she asked."
Two caravans to live in. Well, sleep in. Two of those small portable cabins joined together to make one larger one for meals and a study, plus a store shed. This caravan was comfortable and pleasantly warm. Outside it was falling dark. "I'll get up and make her a drink," she thought , rousing herself from the bunk where she had been lying on top of the covers, relaxing.
Alicia became aware of her dripping hair and soaking trousers. She turned from the beach, still considering the lie of the land, and walked back towards the remains. At the crest of the hill she paused to bend down and scratch at the ground beneath the clumps of long, narrow-bladed grass. "Sandy." she murmured, a picture forming in her mind.
She straightened up, skirted around the digging and strode back towards the little group of caravans, now showing lights. Her anger was gone - not, perhaps, her disappointment with her assignment, but at least the anger which had clouded her judgement earlier. She had formed an opinion and it would be nice to see whether it proved correct.
The caravan door opened and Alicia squelched in.
"Grief Ali, you're soaked. I was just making you some cocoa. I thought you'd be damp but you need spin drying. Here's a towel for your hair."
"Thanks, Gill. I didn't notice how wet I'd got. I was thinking about the lie of the land and...."
"Dry yourself first or we'll have our team leader laid up with pneumonia."
The location is just like Skara Brae", said Alicia as she stripped off her Cagoule, steaming now in the warmth of the caravan. "Right up against the beach of a fairly sheltered bay. This site is a better spot for a settlement really, it's only exposed to the east."
"Do you really think it's another entire underground village?" Gill sounded excited.
"Ah, well... Let's be cautious. Skara Brae is the Pompeii of Northern Europe. The sand blew in sometime about 2000 BC and preserved it complete with stone age furniture. We'd known about sunken houses before it was discovered, but this was a whole group of them linked by underground passageways. All I'm saying so far is that the whole hillock by the beach there could be artificial and the site does include some walling that seems to be Stone Age or early Bronze Age. That and the location being similar."
"What do you mean 'seems to be early Bronze Age'?"
"The same walling techniques were still in use on the surface in Ireland into the seventh or eighth centuries AD so, without anything to go on, all you can say is that this bit of wall must have been built between 2500 BC and 850 AD - that's over 3000 years. Let's say that it's unlikely to be another Skara Brae type village. Unlikely, but not entirely impossible."
"And this", said Professor Harrington, "is Manjit Charanduwa. A classical period graduate who wants to move into post graduate archaeology."
"I answer to Manjy." said the slender Indian girl, making it sound like 'Mandy'. She was, in point of fact, no more Indian than Alicia was West Indian, for both were born and educated in England. Manjy was a real Asian beauty, though when you looked closely it seemed to be physically more a matter of grace than beauty. She was slim almost to slightness with waist length, dark brown hair framing an oval face with graceful eyes and a nose just a shade too long.
While Alicia was towelling herself dry, Manjy pored over a difficult letter, chewing the end of her pen as she had habitually done in every exam she could remember sitting.
'Dear Father,' she had written, 'I know that you are much displeased with me because I am working away instead of coming home to meet the young man you wish me to marry. This work is connected with the further degree I wish to take and is valuable experience.'
She stopped. She was thinking in English but writing in Punjabi and it was a difficult letter to start with. It wasn't so much that she objected to her parents arranging a marriage for her, although she did not really like the idea. It was much more that she felt that she would never fit in to a traditional Indian marriage. She hadn't actually said that outright because she didn't want to alienate her parents completely if she could avoid it. She probably couldn't.
"Cocoa," said Gill, interrupting her thoughts by depositing the mug on the table beside her with rather more of 'thump' than she intended.
"Thanks, Gill." She closed the notepad, looked up and grinned more cheerfully than she felt.
"This gentleman is Steve Benderman. He is a qualified mechanic. He'll look after the vehicles and equipment for you as well as doing the cooking and general odd jobs. Mr. Benderman will go with the vehicles and caravans when you go up to the Orkneys. He'll drive the Landrover towing one of the caravans. The other caravan and all the equipment will be taken up by a contractor. The rest of the team can go more comfortably by train."
"He's the one," thought Alicia, shaking hands with him, "I've seen his file. Twelve months for drunkenness, disorderly behaviour, possession of a dangerous weapon and assault at a football match. I expected someone younger."
Steve Benderman was in his mid to late twenties and, though he was well built and fit, he didn't look like a football hooligan. At least, he didn't look to Alicia what she expected one to look like. Perhaps the file was wrong.
"I don't think Benderman would mind me telling you", Professor Harrington had explained to Alicia later, "the term of imprisonment sobered him up considerably and his probation officer wanted him to get away from his former environment as completely as possible."
"Well, the Orkney Islands are well away from Birmingham, I suppose," Alicia had observed, adding rather sourly, "In fact they're well away from practically everything."
"Benderman will take the vehicle ferry to Lowness with the equipment while the rest of you follow to Hoy using the passenger only ferry from Stromness to Linksness." explained the Professor, carefully ignoring Alicia's remark.
There was a knock and the caravan door opened. Steve Benderman entered, accompanied by a chilly gust of wind-driven drizzle.
"'Scuse me ladies," he said, "I'd like to turn the hired car around. Bonnet's facing the wind and this drizzle gets everywhere. If the electrics get damp we could have trouble starting in the morning."
Last thing I want is trouble with the vehicles," said Alicia. "I'll get you the keys." She slipped into one of the roomy caravan's three bedrooms.
"Cocoa, Steve?" asked Gill. "I've just been making some for us."
"Not something I usually drink, but this damp is getting everywhere, so I think I will please."
"We don't want damp getting into your electrics so you have trouble starting, do we?" giggled Manjy.
Alicia emerged from her bedroom with the keys. "What about the generator?" she asked. "Isn't that getting soaked?"
"I stuck it under the cabin for now, all snug and dry, but I'll rig up a cover tomorrow. You don't want that chugging away under your feet all day."
"I'll say not," said Gill. "I thought we were to have mains electricity."
"You'll have it eventually for the computer and one or two other things. I'm rigging up an extension from the farm yonder." He indicated vaguely with a thumb.
"Presumably Professor Harrington arranged that?" said Alicia, making it sound like a question.
"Yes. He just told me to contact the farm. He said they would be expecting me to call and run an extension cord from there," said Steve. "You'll still need a generator for some things, though."
"Not that we'll be in much if the weather clears," remarked Alicia, "And we'll have to make a start of some sort even if it doesn't."
"That cocoa hit the spot. Just what I needed tonight."
"I think," said Alicia, "that the generator can go off in about half an hour. We can manage on the gas lights overnight."
Steve nodded. "Well, it would be running for nothing all night." he agreed. "I'll start it up again first thing in the morning."
"And I'll go in search of the local labour that Professor Harrington said he'd arranged," said Alicia. "He told me everything was organised provided I let them know when to start.."
"The other two members of your team," said the Professor, "are Mr Alan Wainwright - you know him from the undergraduate class you've been teaching - and Mr Frank Baxter who will coming on an exchange from the University of Texas at Houston. These two will join you in the Orkneys. They should be there within a day or two of your own arrival."
The Professor closed his file with a snap. "I'll leave you to fill them in on the details. I hope you have a successful dig. If local reports are correct, it looks promising."
After Alicia had gone the professor glanced again at the photographs in his copy of the file before he put it away in the cabinet. "Promising. But it's been promising before," he thought.
The electric light flickered out. Alicia reached up, turned off the gas light and settled into her sleeping bag. "It looks more promising than I expected," she admitted to herself, as she drifted off to sleep.
Steve left the generator safely tucked up and returned to the second caravan, shutting the night out behind him; Manjy sat up in bed, still struggling with her letter; Gill took two sleeping tablets and the ten pm from King's Cross to Inverness rumbled northwards through the darkness of a wet May night, carrying Messrs. Wainwright and Baxter, who had not yet met.
Chapter 2
The sky over Inverness was a overcast but the rain had stopped and it was brighter. It was a still chilly six-fifty in the morning when Frank Baxter dumped his rucksack and a canvas hold-all by the station buffet.
'Opens early,' he muttered. Of course there were quite a few early arrivals from the overnight train and Frank had a shrewd suspicion that there wouldn't be much else open at that time. No doubt most of those hanging around the station would be going on to Thurso as well.
Knowing that another member of the team was travelling up on the same train he looked around, trying to guess which of those still on the station was most likely to be Alan Wainwright. However, with most of their heavier baggage gone with the caravans and equipment, there was nothing to distinguish either of them from any other tourist. He shrugged and turned to order.
* * *
"....while in Northern Scotland and the Northern Isles the ridge of high pressure will edge in as the day wears on. The rain is already clearing and the wind should drop gradually, leaving a pleasant day..."
Alicia turned off, not the radio but her attention, as soon as the weather forecast was over, and turned over the day's schedule in her mind as she made coffee. Gill and Manjy were stirring and obviously Steve was up and about because through the open window she could hear the sound of the generator chugging away.
Her instructions from Professor Harrington were to contact the village shop in Linksness and leave a message with them when she was ready for local workers. So, first to the village to see what local labour the University had organised for her, and to pick up a few supplies. Then down to work. Steve and the girls could measure up the hillock, rope it off and take a few preliminary photographs while she was gone. The other two would be too late for today's ferry, but they'd have to be met tomorrow.
"Coffee's ready, ladies," she called. "Time to be up and doing."
* * *
The man with the binoculars watched Steve drive another iron stake into the sandy ground, knot the rope round it and uncoil more rope to reach the next stake. The watcher put away the binoculars and strolled towards the workers.
"You know," remarked Gill, "if Alicia's right about this being all part of the site it is fairly extensive."
"Not much left above the ground though," answered Steve.
"There may never have been much above ground," Gill told him.
"Why's that?"
"The pre-Celtic people of Northern Scotland built houses that were virtually underground."
"How odd," said Steve, picking up another stake and the sledgehammer. "I would think it would be damp, chilly and miserable. Smoky too, I should think."
"At least it would be windproof," said Gill. "Anyway, they were damp, chilly and miserable times, the Late Stone Age and Early Bronze Age. The people were smallish, few in number and kept out of the way of the Celts when they moved in. That's probably how the legends of fairies started - little people who live in hills and all that."
"I can see how stories like that could get around," Steve agreed, knotting the rope to the last stake. "Hello, a visitor," he added, jerking his head towards the approaching newcomer.
The binoculars were in a case slung over his shoulder. He wore a heavy tweed jacket, a felt hat pulled well down and grey trousers tucked into Wellington boots. He was a tallish man of early middle age, with nothing particularly memorable about him.
"There's usually visitors - well, spectators - at an archeological excavation," said Gill, "but I wouldn't have expected any on Hoy," she added.
"Perhaps he's come to offer his services. Not really dressed for digging though."
The visitor stood for a little while watching Steve as he fiddled with the camera. He said nothing as the latter took the preliminary photographs Alicia wanted, coming somewhat diffidently forward as he finished.
"You'll not be using any motorised equipment?" he asked.
"Absolutely not," answered Gill. "This is an archaeological dig."
The visitor appeared relieved. "There's a nest just over the hillock there I wouldn't want to see disturbed," he said.
"You needn't worry about us. We're a quiet and careful lot and we'll be wrapped up in our own business." Gill was surprised at her own confidence.
"In that case I'll be getting along," said the birdwatcher and walked off.
"Nest?" said Steve.
"Bird's nest, I suppose," answered Gill.
"Bird watcher's paradise, Hoy," said Manjy, who had been listening silently.
"Well, time for a coffee break anyway," said Gill, feeling steadily more confident, "and apart from that we can't really do anything until Ali tells us where she wants us to start."
"Ali's back now." Manjy pointed to the hired car turning into the field by the caravans.
"Right then," said Gill, "Coffee and the boss's orders," and led the others back across the field.
"It's just possible that the houses are intact, so we'll start at the landward side and see if there's any sign of an entrance", Ali told them. "There are three local men coming up this afternoon, so we'll make a start on the real digging when they get here.
"We'll go down about two feet starting from this edge of the hill," she said, pointing to the landward side of an aerial photograph. "We'll move the trench inwards until we strike walls then move sideways along them. If this is a village we'll find an entrance somewhere; if not here then somewhere else."
Steve was looking at the photos carefully, turning them in his hand. "Surprising how much the outlines of old foundations show," he remarked.
"Oh yes. You can even see sometimes where wooden posts were stuck into the ground thousands of years ago," said Alicia.
"Fascinating," said Steve, as if he meant it.
* * *
Frank Baxter strolled along the platform at Thurso with his rucksack over one shoulder and his holdall in his hand. He had intended taking the bus to Scrabster for the ferry to Stromness in Orkney, but he was looking at a coach parked outside the station. A large board leaning against it read 'Free bus to John O'Groats for the Short Crossing Orkney Ferry'.
'John O'Groats?' he thought. 'I've heard of that back home. May as well see it on the way, I guess.' and he boarded the bus.
No such thought crossed the mind of Alan Wainwright. He watched the John O'Groats coach leave and caught the service bus to Scrabster.
The train ride from Inverness had been spectacular at times but the scenery here was rather dull and the landscape was, if not entirely flat, then certainly not mountainous. John O'Groats was disappointing. A large car park and a small harbour with a cafe selling souvenirs and claiming to be the 'northernmost house in Scotland', which it didn't seem to be. Frank eyed a house next to the lighthouse which certainly looked further North.
'Maybe I've got my bearings wrong.' he thought charitably. In fact he was giving a lot more thought to the harbour than to the last house in Scotland. 'Any boat small enough to get into that harbour is on the small side for a ferry,' he thought. He was right.
* * *
Alicia, Gill, Manjy and Steve lunched early, so as to be ready for the workers arriving later. The birdwatcher parked his estate car and walked into a sturdy looking farmhouse, just over the fields from the dig. He took off his boots in the kitchen and walked through into the living room to the phone in stocking feet.
"Robert?" he said. "They've made a start already ... Yes, I'll be keeping an eye on them ... Ring again if they show signs of turning up anything of interest? Naturally, that's the whole point of my being here. Yes, ...'Bye."
* * *
"It's a real good thing this is the short crossing," thought Frank. "The back end of this boat's barely an arm's length out of the water. And that may be radar, but there are so many bigger vessels in this stretch of water that I'm half afraid of getting run over. And there doesn't look to be much at Burwick."
In truth there wasn't much at Burwick, apart from the landing stage at which the ferry tied up. There was a not entirely abandoned church and a more modern bus shelter, with a toilet unvisited by Kilroy or any other graffiti artist. And that was about all there was to Burwick. There was a field marked 'NO PARKING - BUSES TURN HERE' Well, yes they did. But only when a ferry unloaded!
Frank watched his rucksack and holdall go into the boot of the bus and stood looking around Burwick. "So this is South Ronaldsay," he thought. "I've seen livlier places in my time."
From South Ronaldsay a causeway built on slabs of anti-submarine concrete led to the next island. Bursay was much the same - undulating and treeless but smaller and slightly more populous. The bus rumbled across yet another causeway onto the island of Mainland, and Frank stared at the grey sea and greying clouds, both stirred by a chilly wind.
The roll-on roll-off ferry journey was longer but more convenient and more comfortable than the short crossing. Alan Wainwright was able to take his time finishing his coffee and his book in the ship's canteen before he went on deck to watch the rounding of Hoy.
It was hard to say why Stromness felt like a Viking town. Perhaps it was the way the houses clung rather in a Norwegian style to the sides of the steep, though not high, hillside. Possibly it was the archetecture of the houses themselves that had a sort of Scandinavian feel to them. In any event, suddenly you found it hard to remember you were still in the Northern Islands of Scotland.
Alan watched the lorries roll off before he wandered along the quayside to the Islands Information Centre.
The Information Office was a newish building on the harbour. The people in it were helpful and friendly, though that was, Alan reflected, their job. Learning that the ferry to Hoy for that day had gone earlier he decided to take in the sights and sounds of Stromness.
Kirkwall, which was a port of call for sizable ships, faced north. The bus rumbled downhill towards the centre of town and stopped in front of the cathedral of St. Magnus. The sandy-red coloured building dominated the square where Frank recovered his holdall and his rucksack.
The town centre was something of a nightmare. It looked like a pedestrian precinct but cars had the right of way. They stopped anywhere and pulled off without warning. He was not sorry to reach the safety of the bus which called at Skara Brae before it went on to Stromness.
"They drive on the wrong side of the road," he thought, "but you can't even tell which side they're supposed to be driving on most of the time."
* * *
"Right, we'll dig from here," said Alicia, "I think we can go down to about three feet up to this point without treating it as part of the dig proper. From here," and she made a sweeping movement of her hands, "I'd like to sift each bucketful of sand with a view to seeing whether there is anything worth keeping and recording."
The tussocky ground was not conducive to easy digging. In fact Gill's shovel, sharp though it was, would barely cut through the roots of the grass. And even when the grass itself was taken out and laid to one side, the soil was sandy and a steep sided trench difficult to make. The soil kept slipping back into the trench. "Throw it further!" said Alicia, a trifle unsympathetically, when Gill mentioned it to her.
The new trench hit the existing one at right angles. Ali had them continue it to form a 'T' shape and extend the old trench as well. She was pleased with the single day's digging, but insisted they didn't rush. Manjit's back felt as if it was breaking. She sifted out several pebbles, a fish bone that might have been a needle, a flake of rust and what Alicia said looked like a bronze arrowhead, also well corroded by time. But the most exciting thing of all was the wall. It was made of the kind of flat stones that could be picked up on the beach. Stones that bore evidence of being smoothed and shaped by the tide as much as by the hand of man. And yet they were fitted together skilfully, so that a shaped dry-stone wall was not only made, but made secure.
"How on earth did it keep from falling down?" Manjy wanted to know. "You'd think it would collapse as soon as anyone blew, like the little pigs' houses when the wolf huffed and puffed." she said, surprising the Scottish diggers who were unused to the idea of someone who looked Indian but thought (and was) British.
"Well," said one of the local men, "if it's anything like Skara Brae they will have piled dirt and sand on the outside to keep it stable."
"That's right," said Alicia authoritatively, "although there are complete buildings above ground that have lasted thousands of years. There's a chapel in the west of Ireland built the same way with dry-stone walling around 800 AD and that one is still completely weatherproof. Admittedly that's a lot later, but there's been no work of any kind done on it."
"Grief!" said Manjy.
Without adding anything to the conversation, Gill nodded. It had been mentioned in one of her textbooks.
"The Pennines are covered in dry-stone walls too." Alicia continued. "I'm not really sure how they did it, but the walls of the buildings slope in. On the other hand, they don't slope all the way in because they used whalebones to help support the roof and, anyway, there must have been an opening for the smoke. All the houses will have had a fireplace in the centre," she continued.
"Sort of central heating?" said Manjy with a grin.
"Sort of," said Alicia, "Now I think we'll stop. The light's still good of course, but the whole team isn't here yet and this is the first day's digging."
"Will you and Jamie have a bite to eat with us, Andy?" Alicia asked one of the local men, almost as an afterthought.
"No, thank you kindly," he replied. "I think we'll be off and come back in the morning."
"As you wish," said Alicia, "I'll be seeing you tomorrow then. If Steve doesn't mind putting the soup on and fetching the camera we'll have some photographs of the day's work alongside the meal. Gill, you go and give him a hand with dinner."
As they strode across the rough grass towards the little cluster of caravans, Gill said, "I'm glad to-day's over. I know it's only the first day, but the first day was always going to be the worst for me. Now that it's over I'm sure I'm OK again"
Steve glanced at her, before remarking casually, "One thing prison taught me was to take each day as it comes."
"I do try," said Gill wistfully, "but it hasn't been easy, putting back together a life and building new relationships. Still, like I said, I do try and you're very easy to get on with."
There was a pause as the penny dropped and Gill considered it. "You've spent some time in prison then?" she asked.
"Yes. Seven months inside after time off for good conduct. My Probation Officer thought it would be a good idea if I kept well away from football and the terraces. That's why I'm here."
"Well you aren't likely to find much football here, I shouldn't think," she said. "You'd probably be well away from trouble on Hoy."
"Hoy is well away from just about everything," Steve observed drily. "Only things you can do here is read books, dig holes in the ground or watch birds."
Gill laughed "According to Manjy, Hoy is a birdwatcher's paradise," she remarked.
"Huh. As far as I'm concerned, bird watchers are just train spotters who don't have a railway line anywhere near," said Steve. "I don't go a bundle on holes in the ground either," he added.
"You don't have to dig them, only see the diggers fed."
Steve only said, "Talking of which, let's get to it - my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."
* * *
Frank looked over the wall at the homes built into the ground, and thought he would leave his rucksack and bag near the wall. He dumped his things unceremoniously and wandered over for a closer look.
"They can't have been more than about four feet tall," he said to the only other visitor, a younger man in his early twenties. "Either that or they walked with a permanent stoop."
"It does rather look as if they were small by modern standards," said the other visitor. "But this part of the world is full of stories about 'little people', so I suppose it's not that unreasonable,"
The face of Alan Wainwright bore a few scars of acne on it, but was hardly the 'pimply pratt' Alicia had referred to when she lost her temper with the Professor. He was up from Stromness, a short bus ride away, and thinking about where to spend the night.
The sea was grey. The setting sun was trying to get through the quickly moving clouds and, although the rain had stopped, it was going to be a chilly night. The hotel looked inviting to Frank.
Each of the houses was built from much the same flat stones you could pick up on the beach, but shaped. Larger, flatter stones were used to form primitive furniture - shelving, a bedding area, a pit for the fire and so on.
"I'd like to get down and measure that doorway." said Frank in a tone which indicated that he might do just that.
"Are you Frank Baxter by any chance?" Alan wondered out loud.
"Yeah. You must be Alan Wainwright," answered Frank, holding out a hand that was more like a paw. "I figured I'd run into you some place along the way."
"I thought I'd see you on the ferry," said Alan shaking it, "but you must have come the other way."
"That's right," answered Frank. "Say, that hotel seems a better place to get acquainted. It's the only place around here with a light on."
"It's the only place around here," Alan said. They turned towards the lights and their suggestion of hospitality as the sun went in behind the clouds again.
Chapter 3
While Steve waited by the Landrover, the ferry came alongside with practised ease. Frank thought, watching, that the sailor standing in the bows of the ferry with the mooring rope looked a rather seedy young man. He was scruffy with a greasy face in need of a shave and hair that was too long and needed a wash. Even his dark blue sweater had seen better days. However, Frank could not fault his skill as he dropped the rope over the mooring bollard and walked to the stern while his 'boss', the only other sailor aboard, used the engines and the wheel to get the back end alongside.
As the scruffy looking individual dropped another rope over another bollard, the other killed the engines and Frank, seizing his hold-all and backpack, sprang ashore. He was followed more cautiously by Alan who, while finding it straightforward, still looked askance at the water slopping over the step. He was followed by four other youths who had a great deal of baggage with them - rucksacks and tents and so forth - which they fussed about unloading. By the time they reached the top of the steps Frank had introduced himself to Steve.
"This is Alan," he said, "and here are four members of the Orkney Archaeological Society who are coming as volunteers to help with the dig. I don't know much about them, but they're wanting a ride to the site for themselves and their gear. I said it would be okay."
"Well I suppose I can squeeze them in," said Steve, eyeing the gear, "but it will be a squeeze and there's a lot of stuff to pick up from this ferry already."
The scruffy looking sailor was busy unloading some freshly baked bread that had been warm when it left Stromness, a crate or two of sterilised milk as well as several boxes addressed to the General Store, which went straight into the back of the Landrover.
Steve noticed Frank looking dubiously at the various labels on the boxes and grinned. "All arranged," he said.
"Right," he continued, "stuff your whatnots in behind the boxes and mind the tray of loaves. You'll have to climb in as best you can on top of the bags, because I can only squeeze Frank and Alan in the front."
There was some giggling and much laughter as the four scrambled amongst their belongings. It was so squashed in the front when Alan and Frank had crowded in that Steve could barely drive.
"Do you want me to join the others in the back? asked Alan.
"It's not far and the road's quiet," said Steve.
"We'll make it okay," added Frank. "I've been further in trucks more loaded than this."
As the Landrover turned into the lower field, they were surprised to find that there was already a tent up by the caravans and by this time two girls in their early twenties had joined the workers at the excavations.
Alicia strolled over to meet the newcomers, glad that the grass was, for a change, dry underfoot. She introduced herself while they were unloading.
"You must be Frank Baxter," she said holding out her hand.
"Right. And you'll be the boss," answered Frank, taking the proffered hand in his big, hairy fist. "Is it OK. with you if I drop my things off in the caravan space you've got for me, before I make a start on whatever you've got lined up?"
"Of course," said Alicia, "but who on earth are all these? I recognise Alan Wainwright of course, but ... the rest?"
"Ah well, " said Steve, emerging from the driver's seat of the Landrover to unload, "you've got yourself some more volunteer labour."
"Yep," chimed in Frank, "Four members of the Orkneys Archaeological Society."
"Really? Every bit of help is welcome." She glanced across to the digging. "You possibly know the two girls from Kirkwall, then. They're here on holiday. Well, you'd better unload your things and unpack your tent or whatever. You can put it next to the other tent." she turned to Frank. "There's a room for you and for Alan in the caravan on the right. If you wouldn't mind giving Steve a hand with the unloading after you've straightened out your things we can all take a break."
"Sounds fine by me." said Frank amiably, and added to Steve, "I'll be right with you."
The American was only seconds inside the caravan, or so it seemed, before he was out again and helping Steve to unload. Once everything was stored appropriately, they turned their attention briefly to the four volunteers. With continued laughter and more giggling, two more tents were put up alongside the first. Steve surprised the gigglers, and to some extent Frank as well, by rigging up an extension cable which not only lit up the area between the two caravans, but also provided a light inside each tent.
"It will go off when I turn the main lights off and you won't have any control of it in the tents, but it's light," he told them.
"It's beginning to look like a gold-rush boom town, " said Frank, "but where's this drink or whatever they're going to have when they take a break?"
"I'll get right onto that," said Steve. "You may as well go over, take a look at the holes in the ground and get your orders from Alicia."
Alicia felt as if she were in charge of a dig of some importance, and wouldn't have thanked Steve for his remarks about 'holes in the ground', had she heard. Her own team was complete, in addition to which there was a team of three adults who seemed to know what they were doing, engaged by the university to do the labouring, the two female volunteers who had been on Hoy doing some work of their own prior to turning up at the site and the four who had come over on the ferry with Frank and Alan. There was a prospect of getting more work done and with the general air of business she felt less resentful towards the whole assignment.
"If Gill and Manjy and two of the volunteers continue to look for an entrance - just continue the trench along this wall," she jabbed at an aerial photograph, "Andy with Jamie and Thomas can take two more of the volunteers. If you start by taking a trench across here," she jabbed again at the aerial photo, "we can see whether or not this is the outline of a house. The third team can consist of Frank, Alan and the other two volunteers. I want to talk first to Frank about the general lie of the land, but the team can continue the trench inwards and see whether or not there is a passageway. We'll have one long session until around six o'clock then stop for food. If we go steadily without rushing we should get a lot done."
Alicia watched with some pleasure as her gang trooped across the field to the dig, and settled down to work according to her directions and according to good archaeological practice.
"Do you want me to dig for a while?" asked Steve. "I've unpacked your computer, the power line from the farm is in place and there's no other work for me in the next hour or so, before I start to get something ready to eat."
"The vehicles have been serviced, have they?" Alicia wanted to know.
"Well they've been checked over. They don't need any servicing. All in order. And the generator," answered Steve.
"Then by all means lend a hand with the digging. Join Gill and Manjy, they're a bit light on men in their team," said Alicia, beckoning to Frank to join her in the cabin.
"Right."
Alicia eyed Frank cautiously. "You're a Doctorate Degree student from the University of Houston?" she asked.
"Sure thing. I've spent the last couple of years on digs involved with Mayan remains and I'm a specialist on their obsession with the calendar and the movements of Mars and Venus. I'm no expert on Bronze Age Britain, I'm only here for the change and the experience. And to see what sort of interest there was in the heavens here, because you cover roughly the same period as the pre-Mayan era. You're in charge of this one and you're giving the orders," he added, grinning.
Alicia was treating him with some deference nevertheless, and wondered whether she would show the the same deference to another woman or another black. She drew her attention back to the job in hand and showed him the aerial photographs of the site. Frank agreed with her, though he would have accepted her word anyway, for he meant it when he said she was giving the orders. After all, it was to be her report which would pass or fail her degree. She watched him striding cheerfully across the rough grass to join Alan Wainwright.
Alicia stayed behind in the 'office' for a few moments. The computer looked to be hooked up properly, but she didn't bother turning it on yet: time enough when there was something to enter. It crossed her mind that either Steve knew about the subject or his instinct for things mechanical was considerable. The little box of CDs was on the table alongside the machine, so she flipped it open and gave a passing glance. The three programme CDs were back-up copies, for emergency only, but there were plenty of blanks for the data. "I hope we'll have plenty of data to put on them!" she thought, and flipped the lid down.
She picked up the aerial photographs again, but didn't really see them. In fact she was not seeing the Portacabin or the remains turned up so far either, nor was she seeing the other scant furnishings of the cabin. Alicia was thinking of her parents in a Birmingham backstreet and of the various friends and acquaintances she had made and lost along the way through school and university. Many of her friends at school now had dead end jobs or families or no jobs at all. She couldn't help thinking of the old saying that the further you climb the further you have to fall - and she had climbed a long way from those backstreets. Still, in spite of what she had said to Professor Harrington she felt in charge and confident. When he called in to see how things were going, he would be impressed.
Alicia shook herself from her day dreams, got up from the desk, left the cabin and walked after Frank, who was already watching Jamie and Andy.
"You know," said Jamie in a burst of unusual chattiness, "I think this is a house, but the roof's collapsed. Well, the middle of it. And some of these stones show signs of a fire."
"Do they now?" remarked Frank, staring at the place indicated by Jamie. "It's only the top one. Perhaps it's a chimney."
"It's no' a chimney, there's no' enough soot. They just look a bit burnt is all."
"You're mebbe right," said Frank. "I'd better get Alicia over here before we disturb anything, but it seems to me this room may have been destroyed by fire."
"Aye? Well, that's one canny woman."
Alicia had reached the site by this time and Frank climbed out of the hole to call her.
When she examined the excavation she agreed with Jamie that there was some evidence of burning.
"They seem to have used whalebone to support roofs at Scara Brae, but perhaps the builders here used wood to support the roof," she mused, looking long and hard at the stones.
"There would have been a chimney," she said, "but these stones have been exposed to a short period of heat rather than a long period of smoke."
She straightened up. "There's been some collapsing of roof stones and there are faint indications that there was a fire. I think the best thing is to expose the roof stones and see the extent of damage, and then dig carefully down and see what's left of what was in the room."
"Seems like you were right Jamie," Frank remarked when Alicia had gone.
"Aye. Maybe so," responded Jamie.
"Keep at it carefully," said Frank "You've every reason to be pleased with the day's work, but we don't want to miss any clue there might be. At least we know that this home wasn't given up voluntarily," he added.
At the end of the day Alicia told the others about this piece of evidence and what it appeared to mean for the history of the village.
"Of course," Alicia told her diggers, "you can't jump to any conclusions from just one building or one set of evidence, but it does look as if this was a village of some size and that life here ended violently. What we don't know yet, of course, is whether that violence was accidental or deliberate and whether, if deliberate, an outside agency of some sort was involved."
"I presume that we're digging at the moment through sand that has blown in through the centuries." Alan remarked.
"I'd expect you to come across charred remains of anything flammable in the roof as the next significant remains," Frank told him by way of answer, with a quick glance at Alicia.
"Grub up!" interrupted Steve, and the group as one person trooped over to where he had been making supper.
There was no shortage of help when it came to serving , but a distinct lack of volunteers to help him wash up.
"Do you want to take your own pictures to-day?" Steve asked Alicia quietly when a rota had been drawn up for the dish-washing. "or do you want me to take them as usual?"
"I'll let you do the close ups," said Alicia, "but I'll come with you when you do and point out what I want taken. I think from now on we'll take pictures as soon as there's anything to record."
Steve nodded his agreement.
Much later Gill walked by herself on the sands, watching the waves break on the beach below the dunes. She thought about the happiness in her life and about the foolishness that had led her to think that all happiness was gone for good. She had been very happy with him, and of course his going had left her life empty and her alone - but had it justified an overdose? Gill had only asked herself this question in the last few months and, when she did, she couldn't escape the fact that it hadn't. Now, in retrospect, she felt a bit of a fool over what she had tried so hard to do.
"Penny for your thoughts," said a voice. It was Steve who had come upon her while she was lost in thought.
"You startled me! I wasn't thinking anything worthwhile. I was just wondering why I ever thought it was worth it."
"Whether what was worth it?"
"Whether it was worth trying to kill myself because my life seemed empty and worthless when he left," answered Gill, after a pause to think about the question.
"No one's worth that much," remarked Steve. There was a long silence, broken only by the breaking of waves on the beach. Finally he asked her, "Didn't you have any happy memories?"
"Oh yes," said Gill, smiling at her thoughts, "I had lots. We were happy together and it was the happy memories I couldn't take."
"Well you should try not having happy memories to look back on," he said wryly. "When I lay awake in prison I could only think back on fights on the football terraces. Fights aren't exactly restful, happy memories."
"No," admitted Gill. "They aren't are they? I suppose you think I've been a bit of a fool. Most people do." she added.
"I think I've been a bit of a fool," he said, without answering her question one way or the other. There was another silence, then he continued, "Would you go back to him now?"
Gill thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't think there was ever any going back once he'd left me and I wouldn't want him back now." She paused. "No," she added, then said, "And you. Do you want to fight on the football terraces again.?"
Steve laughed. "No chance," he said.
Again there was a silence broken only by the sound of the sea on the shingly beach. Gill broke it by asking, "How did you get involved in the fighting?"
When he didn't answer straight away, Gill wondered whether he was about to 'clam up' on her.
"Drink and the wrong company, I think," he said at last.
"Pardon?"
"I went around with a cousin and his mates. I got into pub crawling and drinking a lot. I got picked up for fighting a time or two."
Gill wondered whether he was playing down the football violence. "What about football matches?" she asked. "I thought they told you to stay away from football grounds."
"My cousin and one or two of his crowd were pretty nasty characters," said Steve, "but I didn't recognise that at the time."
There was a silence as Steve withdrew into his thoughts again. Gill didn't like to pursue him into such private territory but he continued of his own accord.
"They were part of an organised disruptive element at matches. They used to go to games for no other reason than to cause trouble. I started drinking and going with them, just when there was a clamp down on crowd violence. The prison sentence sobered me up, I can tell you."
"Do the others know about your prison background. I mean, about your record?"
"I neither advertise the fact, nor hide it," said Steve in reply, "but I imagine Alicia knows about it since she's seen my file. I don't think the others do." He paused a moment and then added, "I don't know why I'm talking about it to you. I don't usually mention it at all."
"Perhaps you're talking about it to me because we've both turned over a new leaf," Gill replied.
They began walking along the beach a little in the fading light. "That's true enough, I suppose. Anyway, prison's full of failures with a big opinion of themselves. As far as I can see the real successes aren't caught, are they? The only reason people are found in prison at all is that they've been caught." There was a pause before he added "Like me."
"Successes?"
"Murderers, thieves, swindlers, embezzlers, People who spoil football matches by fighting. If they get away with it, they aren't caught. Prison is not the place to learn from anyone who's done it and got away with it, is it?"
This was a new idea to Gill and she was considering it when she suddenly stumbled over a small rock, and Steve caught her. For a moment or two he held her gently. At length she drew away.
"Are those the lights of a ship?" she asked him unsteadily.
Steve turned toward the gentle swell. "Where?" he asked.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-30 show above.)