Sacrifice (26 page)

I was lucky; Richard was still out and Elspeth only too happy to be left alone all afternoon. By five o’clock, I knew more about the history of Shetland than I’d ever wanted to. I’d learned that Viking warriors had invaded in the eighth century, bringing with them the old pagan religions of Scandinavia. Christianity had arrived two hundred years later, but by that time the Norse pagan beliefs were deep rooted and had clung hard. As had the Nordic culture.

Though geographically closer to the coast of Scotland, the Shetland Isles had been part of a Norse earldom until the late fifteenth century. Even after the islands passed under Scottish rule, the sea continued to insulate them, preserving a whole store of tradition. The dialect was still heavily interspersed with old Norse words, many of which had been adapted and localized. The word Trow being a case in point.

Trow, I discovered, was an island corruption of the Scandinavian word
troll
. According to legend, when the Vikings had arrived for a spot of rape and pillage, they hadn’t come alone – they’d brought the Trows. Most of the early references I found described the Trows as quite endearing creatures, albeit stomachchurningly ugly: cheerful, happy people, who lived in splendid caverns in the ground, were fond of
good food, drink and music, but hated churches and anything connected to religion. Humans took care not to offend them on account of their supernatural abilities.

They had powers to charm and hypnotize, and liked to lure away humans, particularly children and pretty young women. They also had the gift of making themselves invisible, especially at night-time and at twilight. Strong sunlight, depending on which version of the stories you read, was either uncomfortable or fatal.

I found stories of Trows stealing into homes at night-time, to sit around the fireside and help themselves to household produce, tools or – their favourite – items fashioned from silver; and of islanders leaving gifts of fresh water and bread out for their Trowie visitors, like children leaving mince pies out for Santa Claus. I learned that Trows were powerless when confronted with iron.

It was all quite harmless, entertaining stuff. Until I got to the Unst versions of the stories. Then things took a decidedly darker turn.

Gletna Kirk, for example, not far from Uyeasound, had never been completed, thanks to the Trows. Any building work done on one day would be found strewn down the next. One night, irritated by the lack of progress, the officiating priest had stayed at the site to watch. He’d been found dead the next morning. His murderer was never found, the building work was abandoned and Trows had copped the blame.

I read that the numerous tiny hillocks around the islands were believed to be Trow graves, the creatures, it seemed, being particular about how they were buried. Trows believed that if their bodies didn’t lie in ‘sweet, dark earth’, their souls would wander and turn malicious. Many Trows were buried together, preferring company, even in death. Even today, it was claimed, an islander, discovering disturbed ground on his land, wouldn’t investigate, in case he uncovered a Trowie grave and set loose an evil spirit.

I am not remotely a superstitious person, but as I read that something cold pressed itself against my spine.

Other stories told of women seen out walking in the twilight, at the same time that they died peacefully in their beds at home. I read that whenever the Trows stole an object, they left in its place a perfect replica, known as a stock. When they stole a person, they left a semblance. I looked
semblance
up in a dictionary of folklore: ‘A wraith-like creature,’ it said, ‘little more than a ghost, but bearing a strong physical resemblance to a human.’ Richard’s study lay on the eastern side of the house and, this late in the day, no sunlight found its way through the large bay windows. I realized that I was shivering.

In relation to Unst, I found no stories of mischievous, hobbit-like creatures. Instead, there were several brief references to the Kunal Trow, or King Trow: human in appearance but with great strength, unnatural long life and considerable supernatural powers, including
that of hypnosis and the ability to make himself invisible.

In one book I looked at the Kunal Trows were described as a race of males, unable to beget female children. To reproduce, the Kunal Trows stole human women, leaving behind semblances in their place. Babies born of these unions were always strong, healthy sons. And yet nine days after giving birth, the mothers died.

I found several references to a book by a Scottish woman, who was generally considered to be the expert on the Unst Kunal Trow. I was sure Richard would have a copy of it but it wasn’t anywhere obvious.

Well, it was all very interesting, but it wasn’t getting me any closer to interpreting my runes or Trowie marks.

Earlier, I’d found a copy of the same book on runes that Dana had borrowed from Lerwick public library. I picked it up again and opened it at the preface.

Runes are the language of life: they heal, they bless, they bring wisdom; they do no harm.

I wondered what Melissa Gair might have said about that.

Richard had told me that one could find different interpretations of the runes. Dana and I had made no sense of the meanings offered in this book, but maybe Richard had others. I stood up and scanned the room. I’d seen district public libraries in London with fewer
books. It was the largest room in the house and each of its walls was lined, floor to ceiling, with shelves fashioned of dark oak. The west wall contained his Shetland collection, including the works on myth and legend that I’d been skimming. The lower shelves were piled high with leather-covered box files, each one neatly labelled in Richard’s tiny handwriting. The first one I looked inside contained several thin paperbacks on the Shetland dialect. I was nervous about rummaging through many more. It was one thing to be found in here looking at books. To be found going through boxes of papers was another matter. Then I saw it: a box at the bottom of a pile labelled
Runic Scripts and Alphabet
. At that moment the door opened.

I made myself turn round slowly and smile. Richard stood in the doorway. He only just made it into the room without ducking his head.

‘Can I help you find something?’ He’d been out walking and brought the smell of the moors with him. I noticed he was still wearing his outdoor boots and coat.

‘Maybe something light,’ I replied. ‘In case I have trouble sleeping.’

‘Mrs Gaskell is probably the closest thing to Mills and Boon I have,’ he said. ‘Or maybe Wilkie Collins; he’s usually good for a cheap thrill.’

I stood up. ‘Why did you never mention you worked at the Franklin Stone?’

He didn’t flinch. ‘Would you have been interested?’

I stared at him, more than ready for a fight. ‘Did you get me my job? Did you put in a good word for me with your protégé?’

I watched him closely. ‘No,’ he said simply. I was sure he was lying.

‘Why do Kenn Gifford and Duncan hate each other? What happened?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Kenn doesn’t hate Duncan. I doubt he gives him much thought at all.’ He shrugged, as if the matter was too trivial to be of interest. ‘Duncan can be childish sometimes.’

His eyes left me and fixed on the pile of books I’d left on the carpet.

‘My books are very carefully arranged. I find it difficult if someone displaces them. I’ll be happy to find you anything you need.’

I bent down and picked up the scattered books.

‘Leave them, please. Elspeth has made tea.’ I knew he wasn’t going to budge until I left, so I walked out.

22

THE NEXT MORNING,
Richard left early. for a retired man, he spent a lot of time out of the house and I realized I had no idea where he went or what he did. Since the previous evening, though, we’d been distinctly frosty with each other and it didn’t seem like a good time to ask. Shortly after breakfast, Elspeth left too on a shopping trip. She asked if I’d like to go with her but I truthfully pleaded a headache and tiredness and, after fussing a bit, she went. I waited for the sound of her car engine to fade and made straight for Richard’s study, only to find the door locked.

I stood behind it for a moment, steaming. Then I ran upstairs. In my handbag I knew I’d find a few hairgrips. I grabbed four from the debris at the bottom and started bending them into shape.

I grew up with three brothers, all older than I, in a Wiltshire farmhouse three miles from the nearest village. After school they were my only companions. Consequently, I understand rugby, can keep score in
cricket and explain the offside rule in soccer. I can name every bug and insect that crawls on British soil and can perform some pretty impressive stunts on a skateboard. I gleaned my early knowledge of sex from
Playboy
magazines and, coming to the point now, was pretty certain I could still pick a lock.

The lock was old, which helped. It was also a little loose in its casing, which didn’t. It took me fifteen minutes. Inside the study, I went straight for the box file I’d noticed the evening before. It contained six copies of a magazine I’d never heard of:
Ancient Scripts and Symbols
, some photocopied pages from books and several dozen sheets of coarse paper, on which the runic symbols had been hand-drawn with explanatory paragraphs by each.

Three runic symbols had been carved into Melissa Gair. One was a streak of lightning, wasn’t it? No – that was around the hearths. A kite – that was it– like a child’s drawing of the bow on a kite string. I flicked through the sheets. There it was: Dagaz. The translation offered for its name was Harvest and its primary meanings were listed as Fruitfulness, Abundance, New Life. Harvest. Now why would someone carve that on a woman’s body? Harvest is a medical term, used when an organ is removed for donation. Melissa’s heart had been removed. Did Harvest refer to her heart – or to something else? I scanned through the pages, looking for other familiar symbols. I couldn’t picture the second rune but the word
fish
kept springing to mind and after a moment or so I found an angular fish shape, called
Othila or Fertility. It was described as the symbol for Womanhood and Childbirth. Not too difficult to see the connection there.

The third rune had been simple, just two crossed lines. I found it: Nauthiz, or in English, Sacrifice. Its meanings were listed as Pain, Deprivation, Starvation.

I think I stared at the words for a very long time, long after they blurred over and I ceased to see them clearly. But if I closed my eyes they were still there. Pain. Deprivation. Starvation. What on earth was I dealing with here? And Sacrifice? What kind of monster carves words like those on a woman’s body?

And what a difference. With Dana’s library book, we’d interpreted the three runes as meaning Separation, Breakthrough and Constraint, and had seen little significance at all. According to Richard’s script, though, the runes seemed decidedly more apt: Fertility – a woman able to bear children; Harvest – the new life emerging from her body; Sacrifice – the price she has to pay. I’d learned that the runic carvings on Melissa did have meaning and – very disturbingly – that my father-in-law knew about them and had chosen to keep quiet. I also realized Dana’s library book hadn’t been so far off. Constraint seemed to fit quite naturally in a group containing words like Sacrifice, Pain and Deprivation; likewise Breakthrough had connections to words like Harvest and New Life. It was just a question of where the focus and emphasis lay.

Something started niggling at me. There was more there if only I could see it; something new; something in the meaning of the words, something I was missing.

On a desk in a far corner stood a fax machine. I took the sheets of paper over to it, copied them and tucked them into the pocket of my jeans. Then I left the room, taking a few minutes to re-lock the door behind me.

I had to call Dana. She didn’t answer her mobile or her home phone. Through directory enquiries I found the number of the Lerwick police station, but got her voicemail. While I was wondering what to do next, the phone rang. I answered and a male voice asked for Richard.

‘It’s McGill. Tell him his son’s boat has been retrieved. It’s down at my yard. I need to know what he wants me to do now.’

I promised to pass on the message and got the address of the boatyard. I’d put the receiver down before I realized it was really up to me to deal with it. The boat belonged to Duncan and me.
Duncan and me.
How much longer would I be able to say
Duncan and me
? I felt tears rushing up. No. Not now. I couldn’t deal with it yet.

The boatyard man hadn’t said whether it was a question of repair or scrap and I hadn’t asked. I could go and look. Anything was better than hanging around with nothing to do and too much time to think.

I phoned Dana’s voicemail again and explained
about the new runic meanings I’d found and about the local woman calling them the Trowie marks. Anxious not to run out of time on her answering system and speaking far too quickly, I ran through the various stories about trows and Kunal Trows and suggested she investigate any island cults with links to old legends. I left it at that, not mentioning Richard. It might be nothing more than bloody-mindedness on his part and, when it came to it, I was a bit reluctant to shop my husband’s father.

Borrowing Elspeth’s bicycle, I rode to Uyeasound and found the boatyard. A red-faced, red-haired islander in his late teens told me McGill had gone out for half an hour and led me inside the hangar where several boats, in various stages of repair or construction, were balanced on wooden piles. Our Laser lay against the wall in a far corner. A chunk of the bow was missing, the port side badly dented and scraped.

‘You own this boat?’ asked the lad.

I nodded.

He shifted from one foot to the other, looked at the boat, then at me. ‘Insurance job, is it?’

I raised my head and looked at him. ‘Sorry?’

He looked round at the wide double door, as if hoping help would come. It didn’t; the two of us were alone.