Rise (48 page)

‘In the dunny. Come on!’

‘Dunny?’ says the inspector.

Fiona lays her hand on her son’s shoulder. He flickers; looks up at his mum, surprised. ‘He means the chambered cairn.’

‘The one on Mary’s Brae?’ The inspector signals to two of his cops. ‘You’ve been in there, yes?’

‘Aye, sir. It’s about three foot across. You could just about get two folk in there, but it’s totally clear. Checked it ma’sel’.’

‘Aye, behind that,’ Johnny is breathless. ‘He was pure whimpering, Buddy. He kept going back in the dunny. See the back wall, it’s all soft. Like the mud’s fell in. He kept digging at it. Look! Buddy found a tooth.’

All noise and orders barking then; a great wellspring of compact, focused movement. Disembodied words come on radios, more tea, more blankets, infrared heat-seeking robots. One of Sentinel’s yellow diggers rumbles into life: it is a vortex of colour. In the middle of it: Hannah, running from her blanket; seeing the fresh blood on the tooth in the barley-sugar light.

Chapter Forty-two

Grey September.

The souterrain is ‘incredible’, they all breathlessly agree. The people enter crouched. Ferns and moss cushion the walls on either side. Runnels of water drip between the vegetation; the light is funky green. There’s a draught coming from further down, a coppery smell of earth and damp. The hole of sky behind them is the only light, and it shrinks away to nothing as they pass in single file. But all is fine, for they have torches. Hand torches, issued no more than ten at a time. There is no way cables and electric lighting are being strung on these walls. There is talk of lighting it from above, unobtrusive shafts of atmospheric colour, perhaps a
son et lumière
show; there’s a plinth where a string quartet could stand. Or a fiddle band.
Fingal’s Cave
: you could commission something nice; there could be a competition.

The people blink. Ease themselves to upright, surprised that they can stand. Blink again. It takes a minute until they realise that the ceiling is comfortably high, and that there is no limit to the stretch of the walls, which soar long and deeply into the hillside, like endless dark wings.

‘Now, if you look to your left. Far left . . .’

They are transfixed by the carvings on the wall. They are shown the three separate alcoves, with the marks of different Celtic tribes. Professor Tom is not tired of repeating himself, he will do this in batches, then the locals will be trained, or there will be official guides. But for now, this is Tom’s domain, and he’s exuberant. Arms flung wide, voice modulated to quiet – slow – BOOM as the light glides up in a graceful arc to sweep dancing animals.

‘See there: we have the stag of the Creones, from Cernunnos, the horned god – which also gives us the word “cairn”, of course. Creones and Carnonacae were known as Caledonii by the Romans; a tribal alliance basically. You’ll also find Creones in Cornwall and Brittany. We’re confident that Kelt, Galat or, in this case, Caled all mean the same thing.’ He nods, knowledgeably, at the murmuring group.

‘However, what we’re also seeing here is evidence of tribes assembling from much further afield. There, see?’ The professor points the torch beam at an angry, trotting dog. ‘We have the Venicones, represented by this carving of the hound or wolf. Now, these peoples came from the area around Fife and Tayside.’ He bounces the light left. ‘Observe too the horse, depicting the Epidii, who covered the area from Kintyre to Jura, and here,’ he alights on a three-legged cloud, ‘we have the sheep of the Caeren, who stretched as far as Sutherland. We even have the cow of the Selgovae in the south-west. Note the exceptionally short horns.’ The cow looks like a rhinoceros, with a long, curving tail that girdles its body.

‘What you have to understand is that this is an oral tradition. For a Pict or a Celt to write all these symbols down together is very powerful – and also makes them very vulnerable. Essentially, you’re laying yourself open before your enemy.’ He turns to face the listeners, shining the torchlight under his own chin. Whether by accident or design, the spooky shadowlight is chilling. ‘It is a mark of great faith and trust in each of these differing tribes – they are revealing their true faces, if you like. Celtic scholars among you will know the words for “face” and “honour” are closely linked.’

He frowns and pauses, so that the gathered group will realise the import of his words, that they are looking at profundity. ‘You have to understand,’ Professor Tom repeats, ‘how incredible this place is. We know of Druids convening in Gaul to mediate disputes between tribes, but we’ve never heard of it here in Scotland. For all we know, this may have been an early form of parliament. And of even earlier worship too.’ He flashes his big teeth, and his torch. The light leaps from his bony, animated fingers. ‘Diodorus Siculus tells us the Celts liked to “fight, celebrate and speak well”—’

‘No change there, then!’ shouts a voice from the gloom. There’s a ripple of laughter, which reverberates round the cave.

‘Indeed. They also believed that the immortal soul lives in the head: ergo the severing of the sacred skull.’

The people shine their torches up the walls, all searching for the bone-light, two niches facing east where the skulls have kept their long vigil. Two of them: an adult female and a child. The originals have been reunited with their bones, but their polished resin substitutes gleam on. Even up close, you can barely tell the difference. It’s the same with dentures, when they give them artificial, slight flaws to make them seem even more real. Folk shudder at the thought, the
thought
, of how they died. There is a whispery thrill at the back of people’s ears, where the hard bone curves. Were the heads severed before or after? Is he talking about sacrifices? That’s disgusting. Dripping walls of shifting liquid could be slime; the echoes are locked-in screams where nobody hears and nobody comes and who would
do
that; if you were human who would do that?

But the people are also searching for more recent death. There is a topical frisson that will either fade or be augmented over the years, as folk forget, or embellish, as they stand respectfully weighted under this good earth, or as they peer into the darkness and imagine ghostly flittings and sighs. They will make their own tales.

The group hear the professor speak of ‘ancient democracy’, but they are looking for recent blood. With a broken neck, though, you get little gore. Not on the outside. Suffocation is slower, cleaner, until the bodily fluids start to ooze. They are looking and whispering. Overawed. You canny pretend it’s not good for business.

‘The most common name for a souterrain was “
wamn
”, meaning “earth house”. What’s notable about this structure, though, is the length of it. When we go to Crychapel Wood, you’ll observe this “tunnel opening into a chamber” approach mirrors the same, keyhole-style. Only, at Crychapel, it’s a tree tunnel, leading to a stone circle. Indeed many of the patterns throughout the glen echo this. Of course, there’s also the argument that, rather than a keyhole, it is a birth canal and a “womb”’ – he does two wee quote marks – ‘with which we are presented. Which leads me . . .’ Tom clears his throat ‘. . . to the final, wonderful secret of this place.’

He swings to the right, all the bobbing heads and torches following. There’s a collective gasp. Spirals. Clusters of spirals, joined in groups of three. As their torches wobble and scan, the people see a dark, square pool about three feet above the ground, uneasy at one corner where water splashes in. The stream runs freely now they’ve removed the blockage at the top of Mary’s Well. Found a lovely wee pendant there too; serrated jet which makes you think of teeth marks round the rim. A phosphorescent glow rises from the water, sparking diamonds and emeralds. The carved spirals on the wall turn, here, to something else: beneath the slime and greenery – even, they realise, on the floor – a repeating pattern of circles within a circle, edged with carved-out dots. Outside, on the standing stones, these same patterns will make them think of the moon and sun, but here, in this musky hole, it makes them think of sex.

You can hear the tremor in Professor Tom’s voice. He is done with the foreplay. ‘Now, at neighbouring Dunadd, we have the famous coronation footprint, and the boar carving of warriors and kings. Here, beneath the earth – and linked in layout and design to the far more ancient Crychapel Circle – we have . . . up, please!’

Another gasp. On the wall directly facing them, water flows; the water that is agitating the pool. It flashes on rock and plant, shifting and showing, then closing over. But the shape behind the running water is big, and simple, enough to make out three concave humps drawn with double lines, joined to an elongated oval beneath.

‘I give you Màthair!’

Someone flashes a camera. ‘No photos please! I made that very clear at the start.’

A mumbled
sorry
.

The professor tuts. The people – who all wanted to take a photo too – tut louder. ‘I shall have to ask anyone who attempts to take photographs to leave, is that clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’

‘
Sorry
.’

‘Màthair,’ he pauses. Frowns once more at the sorry snapper. ‘The great mother. Possibly where the name Mary’s Well derives from – and perhaps even Kil-
ma-hur
-ra itself.’

Several
ums
of approval, or surprise.

‘Now, this original carving is considerably older than these Pictish tribal carvings we’ve been looking at. We can only presume they were basing their beliefs on a more ancient system, particularly as the skulls from this cave have been carbon dated to the same period as the bones we recovered in Crychapel.’

‘So, are they the same people then?’

‘We believe so. It’s possible that these already revered bodies were exhumed from Crychapel thousands of years later, and the skulls repositioned here. The conditions in the cave have preserved—’

‘How come she’s got three tits?’

This is Johnny, the only child permitted access on account of his newfound heroic status.

‘She is one goddess, and three. A trinity. She represents many things: sovereignty and political power; nature and fertility. Life and death. Maiden, mother, crone. You’ve heard of the Cailleach? Well, what is a witch but a goddess displaced? Only through appealing to her could a tribe succeed. So it’s fitting that, in this already ancient place, our ancestors gathered to unite and form alliances. Our whole notion of nationhood is . . .’

The professor’s repeating himself already. Justine takes a step back. ‘You coming?’ she whispers, slipping her hand into Johnny’s sticky one. Flesh on glorious flesh, a wee reaching hand through the blackness.

I’ve found her! I’ve found them!

The wetness of Buddy’s tongue on her face. Seeing the light.

They clamber back out of the souterrain, her and Johnny. ‘Well done,’ he says.

‘For what?’

‘Were you no scared, going back in there?’

‘Wee bit. Were you?’

‘
Nuh
.’ He frowns a little. Justine hopes he won’t cry again.
It’s not your fault.
Saying it to him, over and over. He’s just a baby too, like Ross; he could never have realised. She squeezes his hand. ‘But it kept me safe in there as well, didn’t it? Until you came for us.’

‘Aye.’ He beams. ‘Splatted fuck outa that wanker an’ all.’

‘Johnny! Will you please not use language like that?’

‘How no?’

It’s a dreich day in Kilmacarra, but she will never tire of feeling the wind in her face. The steadiness of the sky, and how the earth is beautiful.

‘You going to that stupit ceremony thing now?’ he asks.

‘You not?’

‘Nuh. No way.’ He swings up his bright new bike, from where it’s resting on the ground.

‘Why not? You should chain that, by the way.’

‘Because it’s wank.’

‘Johnny!’

He laughs at her, pedals furiously away. Justine makes her way up the slope at the back of the church. Despite the dull weather, there’s a festive air about the place. They needn’t have worried. A crowd of people have gathered in front of the manse, where two men are putting the finishing touches to a wee stage. It’s only temporary, but Mhairi has instructed them to
bloody make it strong, cause I’m no going up and falling arse over tit.
At the side of the manse, a scaffolder is erecting poles. Once the scaffolding’s up, they’ll fix the roof of the manse. Windows next, then, when it’s watertight, they can look at insulation; proper temperature controls. Now that she’s sold her house at Nether Meikle, Mhairi will keep the lounge for herself – that and Justine’s wee nook in the basement. But the rest will be museum. It would be good if they could have bought the church too, with its leaded panes and its carved wooden lintel of a mother and child at peace, but its future is still uncertain. Mhairi has great ambitions since the grant came through. The money has been match-funded by the council, and Sentinel have agreed to making a generous donation. Part of what swung the vote in their favour. Only three small turbines are visible from the glen – three too many for Mhairi, certainly, but
that’s democracy. And you canny argue wi’ that.
The Village Votes was a firm success: people talked, and people listened. Folk are still talking about it now. There’s a suggestion the model might be adopted for other decisions too, in the jam-smeared promises of ‘tomorrow’. But then, there’s a lot of talk about at the moment. Of commonweal and catastrophe and destiny and family ties. Everything’s poised on this fulcrum. Each side of the debate shouts, then holds its breath, terrified at how the wind might blow, what will turn next. Whatever happens, things will change. Already, Scotland is tip-toeing through broken glass. Justine still doesny know which way she’ll jump.