Bloody Scotland

Maeshowe: Orkahaugr – Lin Anderson

Maeshowe

Orkahaugr

Lin Anderson‘Here is a work for poets; Carve the runes

Then be content with silence.’

George Mackay Brown

Orphir, Orkney, the present dayThe runes began to dance before his eyes, their cryptic tree shapes merging branches one with another. Magnus glanced at the bottle of Highland Park, registering how much he’d had since settling down to work. Not enough to affect his vision. More than likely, he decided, it was the lateness of the hour.

Rising from his desk near the fire, he went to the back door and stepped outside. The scent in the house had been of warmth and peat smoke, but out here his strong sense of smell was besieged by a salty cold and the sharp tang of seaweed on the nearby beach. As he passed the sensor, the darkness was punctured suddenly by the automatic light springing on to illuminate the dark water, which lapped just short of the top of the grey stone jetty.

The tide’s in.

Had the sea been rougher, or the wind stronger, salt spray would have been splattering the seaward windows of his home. Built by fishermen below the high water mark, the two-storey narrow house was reached by a flagstone walkway from dry land, with the remaining three sides surrounded by water when the tide came in. It was like living on a boat without the swell, something Magnus liked.

As he reached the old fish-smoking shed, the light switched itself off. Magnus paused, giving his eyes time to adjust to the night. Gradually, the whale shape of Hoy became visible across Scapa Flow, then the flatter form of the small island of Cava. A crescent moon peeping out from behind a cloud fashioned a silver path across the water towards him.

There were no lights to be seen on Hoy, but looking westwards it appeared a few folk were still up in his own mainland parish of Orphir. Approaching the midwinter solstice, the Orkney archipelago had entered a time of near constant darkness – the sun rose fitfully after nine, hovering no higher than ten degrees above the horizon, only to set six hours later.

Magnus didn’t mind the short days and long nights. Born and bred here, he found the dark season strangely comforting. It was during the long summer days when the sun dipped briefly below the horizon, creating what Orcadians called simmer dim, that he found sleep evading him, his internal clock urging constant wakefulness and a mad energy.

In his present post as Professor of Criminal Psychology at Strathclyde University he spent less time on the islands than he would have liked. So much further south, Glasgow didn’t experience the same extremities of darkness and light, although Magnus preferred the constantly changing sky of Orkney to the often dreich grey blanket that would lay itself over his adopted city. With his lecture timetable completed, he had returned to spend the midwinter festival at home, and was intent on observing the phenomenon of the last rays of the setting sun entering the passageway of the 5,000-year-old chambered cairn known as Maeshowe – something he’d seen only once before as a teenager. It all depended on the weather of course. A cloudy sky at sundown would ruin everything. Luckily the most recent forecast was good, giving Magnus hope that he might experience that magical moment again.

Then his second stroke of good fortune – the images of the runes, delivered earlier today, courtesy of DI Erling Flett, a boyhood friend as well as a local police officer.

‘They were etched on a small, part-broken flagstone unearthed by a local farmer between the Stones of Stenness and Maeshowe,’ Erling had explained, ‘I’ve handed the stone over to the archaeological folk at the Ness of Brodgar dig, but I took some photographs of the etchings first. Had a sneaking suspicion you might be interested in them …’

Interested had been a mild description of how Magnus had felt at that point. His fascination with Neolithic Orkney had been fashioned in childhood. Although he’d eventually become a forensic psychologist and not an archaeologist, he’d continued to be absorbed by the structures and symbols left by those who had dwelt on the islands. His islands.

The burial mound of Maeshowe, or Orkahaugr in Old Norse, contained one of the largest groups of runic inscriptions known in the world. They were the work of the Vikings. Much like present-day graffiti, the words etched on the inside stone walls consisted mostly of blunt and short sentences, like ‘Thorfinn wrote these runes’ or, a little longer, as though fashioning the beginning of a story: ‘… these runes on the Western Ocean with the axe that killed Gaukr Trandkill’s son in the South of Iceland’.

Some were written by women, suggesting that the raiding parties that had broken into the ancient tombs hadn’t always been made up of just men. Although, as was often the case, and in whatever era, the women were wont to be judged, sometimes kindly, sometimes not. ‘Ingigerd is the most beautiful of women’ boasted one carving and, ‘Many a woman has come stooping in here no matter how pompous a person she was’ commented another.

But Magnus’s favourite was definitely the straightforward ‘Thorni f****d, Helgi carved’ – although the official guide tempered the first phrase when explaining the meaning of the runes to visitors.

Shivering in the night air, Magnus went back inside and, pouring himself another dram, sat back down at his desk. He let his brain be consumed again by the puzzle of understanding the marks that someone in the distant past had felt compelled to cut into stone.

Orphir, 1151

Rognvald Kolson stepped onto the stone quay. Already the short northern day was drawing to a close. It had become plain on the journey that his warriors, a mix of Norwegian and Orkneymen, did not like one another. And they would have to winter here before they sailed southwards to find another sea – landlocked, warm, its shores a feast of fruits and treasure.

Rognvald could only hope that the sets of Vikings would not kill one another in the interim.

If they were lucky, the crew might inspire the verses of one or all of the three Icelandic poets he’d brought along. To die young and in battle and be remembered in song and perhaps in mystical runes was surely preferable to a straw death: grey haired, wheezing and choking in some shut bed in one of the many low, poor stone buildings that fought the wind here and in Norway.

That self-same wind was now driving in from the north, bringing snow. Pulling his furs closer about him, Rognvald looked forward to his warm lodgings and the food, ale and female flesh that awaited him there. As for his warriors, they would have to find shelter and winter fare for themselves.

‘There.’ Helgi pointed at a humped shadow in the distance. ‘Orkahaugr. That will be our shelter.’

The others didn’t argue. No one argued with Helgi, not if they wanted to live. Not least Thorni, the man who was currently allowed to lie with her. Then there was her sister, Freylis. Smaller, lighter, raven-haired. And, like the raven, when her eyes watched you, it was as though they knew of your past, and your future.

As they crossed the strip of land that led to the ring of giant standing stones, the moon emerged from behind a cloud, and their eyes, accustomed to the night, were startled by the sudden creamy brightness that lit their path. Like everything else that happened in their world, they wondered if the moonlight signified that the Gods had chosen to guide their way. Or were the Gods, instead, illuminating the path to their imminent death.

They stood transfixed for a moment, until Helgi’s order drove them on towards the burial mound. As they drew closer, the size of it became clear. Surrounded by a ditch and a raised bank, at first glance there appeared no way inside. Helgi seemed unperplexed by this and reminded them that other Vikings had used it for shelter.

Her reminder didn’t allay their fears.

They’d heard the tales of hidden treasure, already plundered from this place of the dead. They also knew of the tale of the last group to take refuge here. How the stones had rung with voices. How one warrior had gone mad with the sound, and the others had fled.

Helgi, sensing their reluctance, issued a further order, assuring them that she had been told by Odin that they should shelter here, so that when spring came, they might travel south to where the women and wine were sweet and warm.

Only Freylis stood back as the others crawled into the mound, her eyes fixed on the standing stone near the entrance from where a raven watched.

‘Any luck with the inscription?’

‘I sat up late with it, but no luck as yet,’ Magnus admitted.

‘And the plan’s still on for later?’

‘If the weather holds.’

‘I have it on good authority that it will,’ Erling assured him.

After determining that Erling would join him at Maeshowe, work permitting, Magnus replenished his coffee and sat down at his laptop to check the Maeshowe webcams. The main one, above the entry passage, looked down on the back wall of the tomb, the second faced west towards the Hoy Hills to give an idea of the weather conditions close to sunset. The third was located in the east chamber looking out towards the entry passage. When the weak winter sun set between those hills, its last rays would touch the top of the solitary Barnhouse stone, after which they would illuminate the low stone passageway that led into the burial mound’s central chamber.

A few seconds of light in surely the darkest of places.

Why the architects of these tombs had striven to make this happen, no one knew. Magnus had pondered this as much as others. Maeshowe had undoubtedly been a place of the dead. Perhaps the light that fell within offered the souls that lay there a way to the afterlife. Maybe that line of light simply promised that winter would be replaced by spring – a symbol of renewal and rebirth.

It seemed every stone structure had been given its place for a reason.

But what about this latest find?

Daylight, however weak, offered a different view of the etchings. His jottings from last night were scattered about the desk. Magnus drew them together. Of the words he’d attempted to decipher, there was only one of which he felt certain. And that word was death.

The darkness, like liquid, flowed about and within her. The others had taken to the side chambers, but Freylis had chosen to lie near the entrance. Helgi had tried to order them to reseal the opening with the flagstone, but Freylis had resisted her command, offering instead to be their guard. Seeing her younger sister’s fierce expression, Helgi had wisely agreed, then, summoning Thorni, had climbed into the nearest of the three side chambers. Freylis could hear them even now, Thorni grunting his pleasure while Helgi urged him on.

Freylis crawled back along the stone passage, until the sounds of their lovemaking were blanketed by the walls. From here she could see a little of the sky, clear now and scattered with stars. She knew that Thorni had no choice but to do as he was bid, but it didn’t make it any easier to listen to. Freylis was aware that her sister had chosen the tall Viking because he had first appeared interested in Freylis. As Shieldmaiden and leader, Helgi had to be seen to take what she wanted. If not, her place would be usurped – and swiftly.

And she believes I may be the one to do that, Freylis thought.

The noises had ceased, to be replaced by snores. Freylis continued her way along the passage. Emerging into the cold, sharp night, she rose, axe in hand, to find the raven awaiting her, its eyes bright with certainty.

Magnus noted the raven on his way to the car. Perched on the porch roof as though awaiting his exit, it cawed loudly when he appeared. He knew much about the raven’s place in Norse mythology. How Odin was often pictured with a hrafn – a raven – on each shoulder. Called Huginn and Muninn, they were dispatched each day, their task being to bring back news of hanged men and those slain in battle.

As a boy Magnus had been both fascinated and scared by such stories. He had always disliked, even feared, ravens – for their sharp looks, for the way they’d watch you while they picked at the flesh of some dead animal. ‘Do you know what you call a group of ravens?’ his grandmother had once asked him. ‘An unkindness.’ They were thought to signify that something unpleasant or evil was about to happen. Orkney folk history was full of such tales, where the appearance of a raven on the roof of a crofthouse, or one seen flying into the west, was a portent of sudden death.

As he drew away from the house, Magnus watched in his rear view mirror as the bird followed him briefly, before winging its way skywards.

Driving towards Maeshowe, Magnus noted how clear the sky was, how still the air. From the road, Scapa Flow appeared as smooth as a mirror. It looked as though Erling’s forecast was right, provided it lasted until sunset.

He arrived at the parking spot at Tormiston Mill, but there was no sign of Erling’s police car. Must have got stuck at the station, he thought. His friend could always watch it on the webcam – but it would be a poor substitute. The light was already fading. Magnus walked quickly in the direction of the large grassy mound.

Despite the starry sky, Freylis felt the soft touch of snowflakes on her face. She was cold and would be better off inside, but still she waited, her back against the upright stone, in the hope that Thorni would appear to wrap his furs about her. So often he had come to her after lying with Helgi. On the ship sailing here and before at home in Norway. But they hadn’t been careful enough, she thought. Surely Helgi had sensed Thorni’s desire for her sister and had sought to thwart it.

Freylis fingered her axe, its blade so sharp it could cut stone. The raven had gone, or its inky blackness had melted into the night. Its presence here could, she acknowledged, have been the eyes of Odin watching over her. Or a signal of impending death. Freylis wasn’t afraid to die, in fact she would welcome it, provided it happened in battle. She, like the others, wanted her story told in poem and song and in the runes.

At that thought, an idea came to her.

The stone she leaned against had a smaller partner which lay flat in the earth before it. Crouching, Freylis began to score its surface with her axe.

The mound looked deserted as Magnus approached. He hadn’t expected to be alone to view the sunset, but he wasn’t complaining. Usually it was visitors to the island who showed the deepest interest in the spectacle. Orkney folk had lived with it all their lives.

Glancing to the west, Magnus registered the weak sun approaching the horizon. Despite the clear sky over the hills of Hoy, he felt something white and wet touch his cheek. Turning east, his heart sank as he spotted a dark mass on the eastern horizon.

Snow.

His watch told him it was ten minutes until sunset, still time surely before the bank of cloud swept in? Further flakes began to appear, tossed this way and that in what was definitely a rising wind. Swearing under his breath, Magnus ducked and entered the long low passageway.

Emerging into the main chamber, he was swallowed by darkness. Using the light of his mobile, he made his way to the back wall and settled down to await the arrival of the final rays of light.

She had chosen to fashion a raven, with rough lines for feathers, a sharp beak and one eye side-on. Freylis had always felt an affinity with ravens, perhaps because of her own dark colouring, or the keenness of her eye, even in poor light. And like the bird, she could read what people were thinking and anticipate what they might do, which was as good as knowing the future. It was a skill that had kept her alive until now.

But my sister isn’t easy to read, she thought. Helgi does what is expected of her as a Shieldmaiden, but I do not know her thoughts.

A faint sound from within the mound caused Freylis to pause and shift position, her axe hand ready. She caught his scent before she saw him and her heart upped its beat. Emerging from the passageway Thorni rose, tall and broad against the sky. Freylis watched as he sought her scent and, finding it, he turned in her direction. As he approached, Freylis rose from behind the stone to greet him.

Magnus glanced at his watch again. Surely it was close to, if not already past, sunset. Yet no line of light crept from the blackness of the passageway. The snow clouds must have reached the west in time to cover the setting sun, he thought. There was no point in staying there in the dark. Disappointed, he made to rise. As he did so, he was startled by a smell – not of the cold stone of the mound, but of a human.

Was someone in here with him?

Magnus swung his mobile’s light round the main chamber. It was empty, although the smell was growing stronger. Standing motionless, he focused entirely on the odour, attempting to analyse it. There was no hint of decomposition. Though pungent it came, he was sure, from a living, perspiring human being. Then he caught something else. Sharply metallic, like fresh blood. Disturbed, Magnus made for the first of the side chambers, persuaded that someone was in there and that they might be hurt.

As he did so, the sounds began. Strange, eerie, resonant. Magnus had read all about the unique acoustic properties of Maeshowe. A chanter or drum being played in the main chamber might be swallowed by silence, yet the noise it made could suddenly appear from one of the side chambers. But that wasn’t what was happening now. Rustling and breathing sounds surrounded him. Magnus knew that he was among people. Sleeping people.

Were his sense of smell and the acoustics playing tricks on him in the dark? He felt like a boy again, flinching at the sight of a raven. He wanted to leave. He directed his mobile’s torch at the entrance passage. But it was no longer open. Instead, it was partly covered by a large flagstone.

Their eyes met. Freylis didn’t step forward, waiting instead for Thorni to come to her. And come he did, enveloping her in a bear-like grip, crushing her to his chest. As heat flowed from his body to her own, Freylis realised how cold she had been.

She was glad of his body and his warmth, registering too that he either desired her, or his earlier desire for her sister had not yet abated.

‘Hrafn,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘It is done.’

As he drew her down behind the stone sentinel, Freylis laid down her axe.

Magnus manoeuvred the flagstone back, perplexed by how it had got into that position in the first place. As cold air flooded in from the passageway, he took a deep breath, ridding himself of the scent of blood and sweat. Emerging into the night, he was surprised to see that the sky was clear again and filled with stars, the snow clouds gone. His mobile’s light gave out on his way back to the car, despite the fact that he’d charged the battery fully before leaving home.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the night, he stopped, turned round and looked back to the mound. According to his watch he’d been in there for almost two hours.

‘What just happened?’ Magnus asked himself aloud as he started his car. Time, he knew, could evaporate when he was working, or when he sat outside watching the waters of Scapa Flow. Had he spent that long trying to analyse what he was hearing inside the mound? What he’d smelt in there? There were stories of people losing their sense of reality when visiting such structures. The burial mound had been built to house the dead, their dark isolation being the first step into the afterlife. So why had he heard and smelt life inside the tomb?

As he drew out into the road, something hit his windscreen with a thump, causing him to swerve. He immediately thought of a gull, but there had been no flash of white. Magnus braked and, drawing into the side of the road, got out to see what he’d struck.

He had to walk backwards to find the body. The raven lay dead, its glassy eye staring up at him. Something in that pose told Magnus what he’d been striving to see the previous night.

Freylis gazed up at the starlit sky. She was growing cold again. She could feel the heat that Thorni had brought, seeping out of her body. She thought of his eyes hard on hers, his warm wet touch on her lips. He had loved her, but love had not been enough. She watched as Thorni walked away, back down the passage to the tomb. When winter was over, he would go south to the sun, where the women and wine were sweet and warm. Would Helgi go with him? Or was she, too, destined to stay on these islands? Her hand reached out, seeking the hard handle of her axe. Her strength was ebbing quickly, but she would finish what she had started. She would tell what had happened.

Magnus laid the sheet of paper alongside the photograph, fitting it to the broken edge of the flagstone. On it he’d drawn what he believed were the missing letters and the remainder of the rough sketch.

Now seeing it complete, Magnus sat back, a wave of emotion washing over him. He was looking at a gravestone.

The word preceding ‘death’ was surely Hrafn. The name that followed was Thorni. And the drawing, side on, with its one eye staring out at him, was a raven.