The Orkney Scroll

Chapter 9

Bjarni and his crew spent many months as guests of the man who had spared their lives, but Bjarni wasn’t happy, and when it was clear they were free to go whenever they wished, announced his intention to Svein, Oddi, and Goisvintha to move on. This was the occasion of much debate in the group, with Bjarni and Oddi taking opposite sides.

“I’ve been thinking, Bjarni,” Oddi said. “This is the most exciting place I’ve ever been, not that I’ve been very far until now. And I think I’m tired of traveling. I also can’t see taking Goisvintha with us, nor can I see her back in Orkney on our farm, with those cold wet nights and the stale air, I’m thinking now I’ve seen better, of our houses. I’ve been offered some work here should I choose to stay, and I believe with your permission, Brother, I will do just that. But I’m hoping you will stay, too.”

“I understand your feelings, Oddi,” Bjarni said. “And were I in your position I believe I would do the same. But I have a wife and sons in Orkney that I would like to see again. I’m told there are men of the North farther east, and it is my plan to find them. Perhaps I’ll find a ship making its way back, or a party going overland at least part of the way. So I’ll be off and wish you and Goisvintha good fortune.”

“If you’re back this way,” said Oddi. “I’ll be very pleased to see you.” And that, as they say, was that. Now laden with supplies and gifts from their generous host, Bjarni and Svein alone of the sixty or so who had sailed from Orkney, journeyed on.

Bjarni intended to go home, he really did, but he didn’t get the name the Wanderer for nothing. As planned, he and Svein met up with a group of Northmen in what is now southern France. But these men were not for going back to Orkney or Norway. They told tales of fabulous riches, silks, wine, spices, and jewels to be found in a place called Mikligardr, or Great City, more wonderful still than Cordoba. Frakokk and his sons forgotten, Bjarni threw in his lot with the others, and headed for Mikligardr, known also as Constantinople, the heart of the Byzantine Empire.

It took almost a year to get there, with all of the trading and raiding to be done, but having reached Mikligardr, Bjarni was quite taken by the glories of the Byzantine Empire and decided to join the Varangian Guard. Varangian is an Old Norse word meaning “sharers of an oath,” and the Varangians were Vikings, most of them from Russia, although other Vikings joined, too. While Vikings had once been a threat to Constantinople, as they were everywhere they went, by Bjarni’s time that had changed. The Varangian guards were troops loyal to the emperor, guarding the palace and the armories. They were mercenaries, of course, and the pay was exceedingly good, too, with plenty of opportunity to acquire loot on the side, and so Bjarni signed up. Bjarni, it seems, was accepted by the others, being a good man with the two-handed Viking axe.

The guard was paid but once a year, and Bjarni and Svein stayed around to collect thrice. With the pay, and his other Viking activities, Bjarni accumulated quite a fortune. He also acquired some relics. A pagan to the end, despite the fact he served the Christian emperor, he nonetheless adopted the habit of his friends in the Varangian guard, and acquired a piece of the True Cross, which he kept in a purse at his side. Still, while other guards wore a small cross around their necks, Bjarni wore the hammer of Thor. Bjarni, one might say, was hedging his bets.

Svein the Wiry wanted to go home now, and so, in many ways, did Bjarni. The problem was, they had no way of knowing whether or not Einar was still in control of Orkney. Svein suggested a spell might work and had an idea. He’d heard-tell of Vikings going to Jerusalem and swimming across the river Jordan in order to make a spell, so that’s what the two men did. This was several decades before the First Crusade, you understand, of 1099, and the Fatmids, who were reasonably tolerant toward other faiths had begun to reestablish control. Bjarni, as he intended, swam across the Jordan, and upon reaching the other side, tied the brush on the river bank into a magic knot, reciting a spell as he did so. The spell was to ensure that his enemy Earl Einar would be dead by the time Bjarni got back to Orkney. That accomplished, Bjarni agreed to turn toward home.

At some point over the next eighteen hours, Maya’s lovely necklace disappeared. Police were called. There was evidence of a break-in. A couple of pairs of Robert’s cufflinks and a diamond bracelet of Maya’s also went missing at the same time. Lester, Simon, and I lost nothing, possibly because we didn’t have anything worth stealing.

I don’t think Maya suspected me of the crime, but I’m certain Robert was not as convinced of my innocence. The police, having reconstructed the event, believed that someone had been watching the house. Timing was carefully studied. We had all helped ourselves to whatever breakfast we wanted. Simon left the house first to go off to his consulting work. I went shortly after that, to follow Willow and Kenny again, although I would never admit that. Sightseeing is what I called it. Around eleven, Lester drove into Kirkwall to look for antiques, and Maya had also gone into Kirkwall to do some grocery shopping. Robert, the last to leave, had taken off just before noon to do whatever rich men do when they are ostensibly on vacation.

Maya was back before 1 PM, and from then on there was always someone in the house. It was not until later that the robbery was detected. Drever, who’d come and gone a few times during the day, discovered signs of a break-in at the back, but he’d pretty much tramped all over any evidence before he noticed it. He did, however, raise the alarm. Robert discovered his missing cufflinks, and then Maya realized the necklace was gone.

Allowing for a few minutes leeway in the time everyone came and went, there was an interval of less than an hour when the house was empty. Maya was convinced it was the people in the derelict house across the way. “It’s that man,” she whispered to me. “The one I told you about, the weird one. They have a perfect view of this house.”

The police, in the person of Detective Cusiter, who gave me a pained look when he saw me, didn’t think so. The elderly resident was in a wheelchair, and completely incapable of the crime, and he in turn swore the other man, the one that frightened Maya, had been with him all day. He said neither had seen anything untoward at the Alexander house. It seemed to me that I was the most likely suspect as far as Cusiter was concerned. He interviewed me for some time about where I had been. I had no alibi for that one hour period. “You do find yourself in the immediate proximity of criminal events on a regular basis,” was all he said when we were done.

Maya cried, of course. The rest of us went around looking somber and whispering to each other. “I have a weakness for cufflinks,” Simon Spence said. “I hope they don’t think I needed an extra pair or two and helped myself.”

“You may recall when we left dinner last night, I was trying on the necklace,” I said. “If anyone is a suspect, I’m it. I’m afraid I even have a key to the place.”

“We all do,” Lester said. “I’m an antique dealer. I could have stolen that necklace to sell. It’s worth something, you know. Actually I suppose you do know, Lara.”

“Yes.” Did I detect a note of suspicion in his voice on that last note? I didn’t mention that Maya thought it was worth considerably more than it was. Lester would have flipped if he knew there was a possibility that Robert paid a hundred grand for it. As a regular adviser on antiques to the Alexanders, Lester might have taken that personally. I would have. Then again, maybe he’d sold it to Robert at the inflated price, which wouldn’t speak well of him.

The person who seemed to have made up his mind about the identity of the thief was Drever the Intimidating, and the person he made pretty clear he thought was the culprit was a certain antique dealer from Toronto. Every time I turned around he was eying me with suspicion, and from that moment on, he dogged my every step.

In the middle of all this drama, Clive called. His tone was the one usually reserved for imparting juicy gossip and this time was no exception. I knew it was going to be good, too, because it had to be after midnight his time. “You aren’t going to believe this, Lara,” he began.

Right now I wasn’t inclined to believe anyone or anything, but I didn’t say so. “Try me, Clive,” was what I said.

“Blair Bazillionaire is out of jail!”

“You’re kidding. Did he make bail after all this time?”

“Not bail. He’s out, a free man. They’ve dropped the charges!” He paused, waiting for me to beg for details. I begged. “He has an alibi. Someone came forward at this late date and provided it. Guess why this person didn’t show up until now.”

“I don’t know. Married woman, maybe?”

“Bingo! You got it in one. Married woman comes forward, says the reason she didn’t speak until now was because she was afraid of her husband and didn’t think the charge was really going to stick, and anyway she was too embarrassed for reasons I will get to in a minute. Now she realizes she has to do what she has to do, no matter the cost, et cetera, et cetera. Rob says that’s why Blair has been ragging the puck, firing his lawyer, and starting anew. He was stalling for time and probably sending secret emissaries to this woman to convince her to confess. Now, bonus points for guessing the name of the woman in question.”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh, come on, Lara. Get into the spirit of this.”

“Camilla Parker Bowles?” I said.

Clive sniggered. “Try harder. I’ll give you a really big clue. Ready? She’s married to Blair’s new lawyer!”

I was momentarily confused. “You don’t mean Leanna Crane!”

“But I do. Don’t you just love it? Blair Bazillionaire was boinking Leanna the Lush, his lawyer’s wife. Dez played squash with the boys every Tuesday night, and Leanna had another type of sport she participated in at the same time. Trevor was, if you recall, killed on a Tuesday. I’m really glad the unhappy couple has paid their bill for all that work we did for them, because they’re going to be in divorce court forever. And I mean, forever! What was Blair thinking, retaining Dez? What did Leanna the Lush have to say when her husband came home to tell her about his new client? I tell you, rich people are not like the rest of us.”

“Oh,” I said. I could hardly believe my ears.

“Oh? Is that the best you can do? Can you not imagine the jokes in the hallowed halls of justice? The only people who aren’t enjoying this are people like Rob, who’s ticked that Blair got off. There isn’t a police officer in the western hemisphere who likes Blair, but even Rob had to laugh. Dez recused himself or whatever the correct legal term is. Anyway, he quit, not that it mattered anymore. It’s just too rich, I have to tell you. The whole town is abuzz. Now the police have issued a warrant for some guy called Dog or something, if it’s possible anybody could be named that. He’s wanted in connection with the death of Trevor Wylie, is the way the papers have put it.”

“I know who that is. His name is Douglas, something or other, Sykes, if I remember correctly, and he always walks around with his Doberman.”

“Hence, Dog,” Clive said. “I see. You do know interesting people. Rob says you’re to come home, by the way.”

“I will, as soon as they let me.”

“That reminds me, I’m supposed to get the name of the policeman who is working that case you’re involved in. He wants to have a chat with him, brother to brother, you know. See if he can get you out of there, promising that you would return, if necessary, if they really have no reason to hold you. They don’t have a good reason, do they?”

“Clive!”

“Okay, relax. What’s the guy’s name?”

“It’s Cusiter.” I had to spell it.

“What kind of a name is that?”

“Common in these parts apparently. He’s here now. There’s been a robbery.”

“Everywhere you go there’s something,” Clive said.

I could hardly argue with that, but I was feeling rather odd. Blair’s getting out of prison was the best news I’d had for a while, and up to that point, it would have been a spectacularly unsuccessful day. Much to my annoyance, Kenny and Willow once again seemed to have done exactly what they said they would, which is to say, take the day off. I followed them into Stromness where they took a midmorning ferry, a nice little boat named the MV Graemsay, which I discovered upon asking, went to the island of Hoy. They had hiking boots, carried backpacks, and stopped to buy crab sandwiches and water in a little shop near the pier. The ferry was very small, and there was no way I could be on it without their noticing, and the return ferry wasn’t until about five o’clock that afternoon. I decided I was just going to have to let them go. If I’d gone, I would have had an alibi, but I wasn’t equipped for a hike at that moment, so could hardly argue another coincidence. I’d wandered around Stromness for an hour or two, wondering what it was I could believe and what I couldn’t before heading back to St. Margaret’s Hope. I did see Drever, as a matter of fact. He drove up to the pier, apparently to meet a boat that came in. He unloaded some cargo from the back of his truck, watched it being loaded on the boat, and then took off. He and Simon that I was going out, and then drove along the relatively short distance to the old house.

It was more than a little intimidating. Dodging debris of various sorts, I went up to the door. It took me a second or two to get up the courage to ring the bell. When I did, dogs, presumably the ones Maya found frightening, started to bark loudly within. There was a pause before a rather imposing voice, through a speaker I hadn’t noticed, said, “Speak!”

I spoke. “Hello. I’m wondering if I might speak to you.”

“About what?”

“Um, well, about the man who died in the bunker you can almost see from here.”

“Go away!” the voice said. There was a click. I believe I had been cut off.

I rang again. There was no response. I stuck my finger on the bell and held it there. I could hear it ringing and ringing inside. The dogs were going crazy. I would have found that intensely irritating and I hoped the man or men inside would, too.

“What?” the voice finally said.

“Before he went mad, Bjarni the Wanderer hid the chalice in the tomb of the orcs,” I said rather loudly and right into the speaker. I could hear my voice through the door. There was a long pause. My finger was poised to hit the button again when a buzzer sounded, there was a click, and the door slowly swung open. I stepped into a dark hall.

It took my eyes a minute to adjust, and when they did, I took in an elderly man in a wheelchair staring at me. Beside him stood a man of about fifty or sixty, the man I’d seen helping with the wheelchair. I supposed this was “that man,” the weird one Maya so distrusted. He was holding on to two dogs still barking.

“Who are you?” the man in the wheelchair yelled above the din. The dogs started to calm down.

I told him. “Might I ask your name as well?”

“My name is Sigurd Haraldsson,” he said. “This is Thor, also Haraldsson. If you don’t know who I am, then why are you here?” Thor giggled.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy, but please hear me out. I’m here because someone I knew only briefly, but rather liked, has died, and his last words to me were the words I just recited to you, the ones about Bjarni the Wanderer. I told the police what he said, and they have ignored it. He died violently, and I think if I could understand those words I might know what happened to him.”

“The man in the bunker?”

“Yes.”

“And you came to me because… ?”

I didn’t want to say that his house made me think of The Wasteland, and he of the wounded king. Worse than preposterous, it was rather insulting. “The man who died thought this place was significant to his quest.”

Haraldsson harrumphed. “I suppose he was correct in that thinking.” The younger man beside him giggled again. I looked more closely and could see Thor was what we would call developmentally challenged. “Thor, don’t you worry,” Haraldsson told him. “This young woman is not going to hurt me. You just wheel me into the parlor, and then you should either go out to your workshop or watch the telly while I talk to our guest. There are cartoons on now, and you’ll enjoy them.” Thor smiled and did as he was bidden, pushing the older man into a rather sparsely furnished room and gesturing to me to follow. One of the dogs left with Thor, the other lay at Sigurd’s feet, and soon I could hear the noise of cartoons coming from a room toward the back of the house. Now that they had stopped barking frantically, the dogs seemed pretty harmless. They were similar, except that one had a white face, and they were both of indeterminate parentage.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me about this Bjarni,” I said. “I am at a loss as to where to go with this one.” It hadn’t yet been suggested that I should sit down, so I figured I was still on probation, but at least I’d made it past the front hall. There was only one armchair in the room, and a rather uncomfortable-looking settee. It didn’t look as if they had company very often.

“Rather brave of you to come in here. Most people are afraid of me,” Sigurd said.

“I guess I’m desperate. The police have me on their list of suspects in the killing.”

He nodded slowly. “That must be unpleasant.”

“It is. I’m also on the list of suspects in the robbery of some jewelry of Mrs. Alexander’s. I didn’t do that, either.”

“I believe I am on the list of suspects for that theft as well, or rather Thor is. You may have gathered neither he nor I are capable of such a thing. Or rather, if Thor took it, he wouldn’t have any concept of the nature of what he had done. But he was with me no matter what those people across the way have to say. What exactly are you expecting me to do about these problems of yours?” His tone was belligerent and quite unwelcoming.

“I would just like to know what this Bjarni the Wanderer business is all about. That is all. If that is too much trouble, then…” I turned toward the door.

“Oh, sit down. You don’t strike me as the kind of young woman who murders people or steals jewelry, either, I’ll give you that. I suppose you want a cup of tea in addition to sympathy.”

“No tea, thanks, but you go ahead. I do have a bottle of Highland Park Single Malt,” I said. “I’d be happy to share it.”

“Twelve- or eighteen-year-old?” he said.

“Eighteen.”

“The glasses are in the cupboard above the sink in the kitchen.” I got them and poured, and after a sip or two he began. “You might as well make yourself comfortable. This is going to take some time. I don’t want any interruptions, do you understand?”

“Were you a school teacher?” Sigurd reminded me very much of my grade seven math teacher, Mr. Postlethwaite, of whom I had been terrified, and probably still would be should I ever run in to him on the street.

He glared at me. “What is that supposed to mean, young woman?”

“You know, I’m not all that young any more. Why don’t you call me Lara.”

“I’m eighty-nine. Everybody is young to me. Yes, I was a school teacher. It was a long time ago. I’ve been retired twenty-nine years. I would have liked to go on with it, but my health took a turn for the worse. Are you going to listen :o this or not?” I shut up. His tale began. “You’re not the only person lured by the words, ”Before he went mad, Bjarni the Wanderer hid the cauldron in the tomb of the orcs.“ It’s an intriguing declaration to be sure, one that requires more than a little explication, and in some ways an irritating way to put finis to a story. For some, though, it is a beginning rather than an end, a statement of such promise that hopes and dreams are pinned on it, as if believing would make it so. To decide whether you come down on the side of the dreamers or the skeptics, or rather somewhere in between, you will have to go back to the beginning, and that means more than nine hundred years…”

It took some time all right, but it was a fascinating story. Bjarni the Wanderer was a Viking, putative founder of Sigurd Haraldsson’s family, who lived in Orkney a very long time ago. This Bjarni the Wanderer, whose name was really Bjarni Haraldsson, got caught up in a political feud, backed the wrong side, and had to leave home, embarking on a journey of thousands of miles and several years’ duration, hence his moniker “the Wanderer,” during which he experienced any number of adventures, some more plausible than others. The saga ended with the words that I had come to know so well, about how before Bjarni went mad, he hid the cauldron in the tomb of the orcs.

Haraldsson told it straight through, stopping only to take a sip now and then from the tumbler of scotch, which I refilled when necessary. I didn’t dare ask any questions until he was finished, as if my asking them would break his concentration and he would lose the thread of his story, and so I just sat there quietly as the light coming through the window dimmed, and the room grew cooler as night rolled in. It made me think he had memorized the story word for word, which maybe he had. I felt as if I were sitting around a campfire very long ago, hearing an elder tell the story of our people, enjoining us not to forget our history, to memorize the story exactly as it was told.

At last he took a deep breath. “The last line of the saga is this: ‘Before he went mad, Bjarni the Wanderer hid the cauldron in the tomb of the orcs.” “

My opportunity to ask questions began. I felt as if I should put my hand up to get permission to ask them. “You believe this story is true? I know you said it wasn’t inconsistent with the facts, but do you believe it?”

“I’m afraid I do. Perhaps I should clarify that. I think there really was someone by the name of Bjarni the Wanderer who traveled where and when he said he did. There is precedent for Vikings taking the route he did. Do I think some of it is exaggerated? Yes, I do. I think the part about the caliph of Muslim Spain is a later addition. Probably Bjarni was in Spain, but he never saw the caliph. Still, I believe there is a great deal of truth in Bjarni’s saga. Most of the sagas of this type have at least some real history in them. Even legends often have a kernel of history in them.”

“And the part about finding a cauldron and hiding it in the tomb of the orcs?”

“I believe it to be possible.”

“Have you ever tried to get an expert opinion on Bjarni’s saga?”

“I have, and I’m sure I’m not the only member of my family to do so over the years. I know my grandfather did. Most recently I talked to some fellow by the name of Spence, Simon Spence. He’s supposed to be some kind of expert.”

“I’ve met him. He’s staying with the Alexanders, next door. He struck me as pretty knowledgeable. What did he say?”

“The Alexanders! I can’t stand people who don’t like animals. They poisoned Bjarni, you know. I can’t prove it, but I know that fellow who likes to pretend he’s still in the army, that Drever whatever his name is, did it.”

I had this awful thought that this old man was crazy, thinking the neighbors had killed someone who’d lived, or maybe not, a thousand years earlier. “Bjarni?” I said.

“My dog. That’s why we keep the dogs inside now, here in the house or with Thor in the barn. We used to have three, now we just have Oddi and Svein. Oddi’s the one with the white face. I see you’re surprised. If you had three male dogs from a litter and you were me, knowing what you do about my family, what would you call them?”

“Probably Bjarni, Oddi, and Svein. That’s terrible, though, poisoning your dog.”

“They didn’t take to my dog relieving himself on that ridiculous golf green, I suppose, nor did they like Thor coming to get the dog, either.”

“Maya Alexander is a bit frightened of your dogs.”

“How intimidating do you find them now that you’ve been introduced?”

“Not very.”

“Exactly. I drove over and tried to discuss the problem. We used to have a good relationship with Alexander. Thor even did some work for him, but Drever’s there now, and he was abusive. He told me to keep my dogs and ‘that retard’ off the Alexander property. I tried, but the next time Bjarni got out and went over there, he died that same night.”

“That retard? What a terrible thing to say.”

“It is. Thor is a very gentle person, and he has many skills, even if he is at a disadvantage in some ways.” He was quiet for a minute or two, before continuing. “Show me the manuscript.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“That’s what that fellow Spence said: ‘Show me the manuscript.” “

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that a copy of it, in English, indeed a copy of a copy of a copy was interesting but essentially useless. The manuscript itself would be absolutely priceless. However, we don’t know where the original went. It may simply have disintegrated. Instead we passed along the translation over the centuries. Spence said that it would be extraordinary to have, if it existed. You may not be aware that the Orkneyinga saga, whilst about the earls of Orkney, was written in Iceland. Many of the famous Viking sagas were written there, the Heimskringla, the history of the kings of Norway, also Icelandic, not from Norway. It is the same with the Knytlinga saga, the history of the kings of Denmark. So we don’t have an Orkney saga actually told by an Orkney man, and written here. Bjarni’s saga would be extraordinary, if we had it.”

“Spence wasn’t interested at all?”

“He was polite. I think he wanted to believe it and he enjoyed the story. I can understand his point of view. We have nothing to show him except a stack of lined notebooks where children have practiced their handwriting. Perhaps if we’d been able to find this tomb of the orcs, particularly if there was still treasure in it, specifically a cauldron, that might lend some credence to the story, I suppose. But we’ve tried and failed many, many times.”

“You call this a cauldron. When I heard it, it was a chalice.”

“I’m more perplexed by the idea that someone outside the family would utter the words as they lay dying. I think, though, the correct word would be cauldron, although who knows? Cauldrons were very common in Viking times. They were used for cooking. On sea voyages, when they could spend time on shore, they would use them to cook meat and potatoes for the crew, so Bjarni would have started out with one, although that is not the point of the story.

You get the idea that Bjarni’s cauldron was different. There are many instances of magic cauldrons in mythology. The Irish have the cauldron of the god known as the Dagda, a cauldron that is never empty no matter how much food you take from it. The Northern European god Thor sought cauldrons for the feasts of his fellow deities, and the Irish Bran had one, too. It is my understanding that cauldrons were used in Iron Age rituals. They have been found in bogs and so on where they were probably thrown as part of some ceremony or sacrifice. And reading between the lines in Bjarni’s story, he does seem to have come across some ritualistic rather cult-like behavior. So I’d say cauldron. They were called graal, actually, these cauldrons.“

“What are the chances of this cauldron’s having survived all this time anyway?”

“Better than average, which is still not terribly good. Most of Scotland has very acidic soil, so artifacts don’t last long, but here we have a lot of shell sand, so chances are rather better.”

“For some reason I thought this was about furniture,” I said. “And now it’s about a pot, or a medieval manuscript, I should say. I don’t want to belittle it. It’s just not what I expected.”

“Why did you think it was about furniture?”

“I was looking for a Charles Rennie Mackintosh writing cabinet, or maybe two of them. It’s a long story and I won’t get into it. The short version is that someone showed me a photograph of an older woman standing in front of this piece of furniture, and this person later quoted the line about the tomb of the orcs as he died. I thought he and I were both looking for the same piece of furniture. I really don’t know what I’m going on about. I just can’t take all of this in right at this moment.”

“You said a photo of a woman standing in front of a writing cabinet?”

“Yes, but don’t worry about it.”

“Get me the photo album overby, will you?” he said, waving his arm in an indeterminate direction, but more or less toward the back.

“Overby?”

“My apologies. I should have said throughby. On the desk. It’s moved.”

Throughby? “I’m afraid neither overby nor throughby are expressions I know,” I said.

“On the desk in the back room,” he said irritably. I got it. The room at the back was much more comfortable, what we’d call a family room off a large kitchen. I could see past it into what might have once been a dining room, but which now held a bed, presumably for Sigurd who would have difficulty getting upstairs. Thor looked up from the cartoons long enough to smile and wave at me. I smiled and waved back. Oddi didn’t acknowledge my existence. He was sound asleep on the sofa beside Thor.

Sigurd flipped through the pages for a minute or two, and then pulled a photograph out of its sleeve. “Would this be that photograph?” he said.

It was the photo Percy had shown me, with a pleasant-looking elderly woman standing in front of a Mackintosh, or perhaps a reproduction, writing cabinet. “That’s it!” I exclaimed. “The writing cabinet.”

“You have eyes but cannot see, as the saying goes,” he said. “Look again.”

I did. The woman looked just as pleasant, the Mackintosh just as I remembered it. Then I realized what he was talking about. On the wall behind the woman and over the cabinet there was a picture in an old frame. When I took it over to the light of the window, I knew what it was. It was Willow and Kenny’s treasure map. “Got it,” I said. “This goes with Bjarni’s saga, right?”

“That is correct.”

“Is it really, really old?”

“No. It, too, is a copy, although certainly older than the notebooks in which I keep the story itself. Again, my grandfather copied something earlier. One of my less reputable uncles tried to pass it off as the original, and even one of my students set out to produce something similar, weathered it, and tried to sell it to the museum.” He stopped for a moment and chuckled. “You had to have a grudging admiration for the youngster, although one could foresee a bleak future for that one.”

“But the scroll in the photograph? It was sold? Stolen?”

“The latter, I regret to say. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, I do. Please believe me, I didn’t steal it.”

“I didn’t think you had. You have it, though?”

“No, but I know who does.”

“That would be the person who stole it presumably?”

“No. That person is dead. It was found in his personal effects.”

“The man found in the bunker?”

“No, someone else.”

“A lot of dead people in this saga of yours. Will you see to it that it’s returned to me?”

“I’ll try. The people who have it think it is going to lead them to a great Viking treasure. They may not be keen on giving it up. They think that the swirls and squiggles along the bottom are an outline of a piece of coastline.”

He thought about that for a minute. “That’s actually an interesting idea. Amazing, isn’t it, how a stranger will look at something, and see what you haven’t in eighty-nine years? Longer than that. We’ve been looking for the treasure for hundreds of years and haven’t found it. My grandfather actually built this ridiculous house that I am now incapable of managing because it is close to the place some people believe Earl Thorfinn Skull-Splitter is buried, and the saga mentions the tomb of the orcs was near that place. We don’t actually know that Thorfinn is buried where we say he is, so that clue may be entirely useless. It hasn’t helped us, I know that. Good luck to them, I suppose. Wouldn’t a copy of the scroll do then, if the treasure is what they want?”

“I would think so. So this lovely woman in the photograph is your wife?”

“My late wife Betty. She died about a month ago. She hadn’t been well for some time. Dementia, you know. I miss her so much, but really I lost her a long time ago when that horrible disease stole her away.” There was a catch in his voice.

Then it hit me, this photograph, and the fact I’d seen it first in Percy’s hands. I felt kind of sick. “I am so sorry. I’ve been so thoughtless and stupid. Please, I didn’t know.” I was completely disconcerted.

“How could you know? You had never met us. She’d not had any sense of where she was for some time. It is tragic for me and for Thor, but not for her.”

“I didn’t mean that. Why didn’t you tell me it was your grandson who was murdered? He showed me this photograph,” I said. “He was looking for it.”

There was a significant pause. “I do not have a grandson,” he said. “Dead or alive.”

“But your wife, in the photograph: he was her grandson, but not yours? Is that it?”

“Let me make myself perfectly clear. Neither I nor my dear and much missed wife, who is the woman in the picture, has a grandson. I have two sons, one of whom you have met, who has no children, nor will he ever, I suspect, and my other son has two daughters. I have great-grandchildren, but they are too young to be participating in this farce, and besides, all of the family with the exception of Thor and me, live in America. I had only two children conceived before the war, and after my war injury, a land mine explosion, let us just be polite and say I wasn’t going to have any more. I loved my wife, but I wasn’t much of a husband for her.”

“So Magnus Budge wasn’t your grandson. Do you know Magnus Budge?”

“Magnus Budge? There are a lot of Budges in Orkney, and I’ve taught quite a few of them. I’m not sure I recall a Magnus Budge, but my memory is not what it used to be.”

“How about Percy, Arthur Percival? He used that name, too.”

“Is that what he called himself?” He sat very quietly for a minute before he started to shake. I thought he was having a seizure of some kind and was about to yell for help, but then he actually guffawed. He laughed so hard, tears were rolling down his cheeks. I just stood there and watched him roar. I did not find any of this amusing.

“Come now,” he said at last. “Give me a little smile. You must get it, surely. You strike me as being reasonably well-educated. Percival. Parzival. Arthur. The chalice. Think, young woman!”

All that young though I might not be, I thought as instructed: Percival, Arthur, the chalice, The Wasteland, the maze, the wounded king. “The Grail,” I said at last. “The Holy Grail.”

“Well done,” he said. “The Quest of the Grail. In legend, the chalice from the Last Supper is brought to Britain by Joseph of Arimathea and hidden somewhere. Its story becomes bound up in Arthurian legend, with Avalon. All the Knights of Arthur’s Round Table seek it, including Sir Perceval, spelled with two e’s, and in some versions known as Parzival, in still others Peredur. I suppose if your fellow had called himself Lancelot, or Galahad, you wouldn’t have been taken in. The Grail is to be found in the castle of the wounded king, the fisher king, a castle at the center of a wasteland, its entrance obscured by a maze. No one knows where this castle might be. Perceval finds it, though, more or less by accident, makes his way through the labyrinth, and is served dinner at the table of the king. A beautiful maiden brings the Grail into the hall. But Perceval does not ask the right question, and the next day the castle and the Grail are gone. If he had asked the question, the spell would have been broken, the wounded king restored to health, and the wasteland would bloom again.”

“Whom does the Grail serve?” I said.

“The question that Percival doesn’t ask,” he agreed, nodding. “You have redeemed yourself. I’ve always liked Perceval. He always seemed to me to be an average knight, unlike Lancelot who caused a lot of trouble, and Galahad who was just too pious. I suppose I’m the wounded king, am I, guardian of the Grail, also referred to as the Chalice? The wound is supposed to be of a sexual nature, hence the wasteland, so that’s about right. In my case the land has been laid waste because of a brush fire, a lack of money, and my inability to keep the place up, all, I suppose, due to my injury in some way. Your Percy, Magnus, whoever, was looking for the Grail.”

“Isn’t everybody?” I said. I was tired and discouraged. Percy couldn’t possibly have been killed because he was looking for the Holy Grail. Locked up in an institution maybe, but not murdered. “Are you looking for it, too?”

“No. My quest is much more prosaic, I regret to say. I’ve always felt that the tomb of the orcs and Bjarni’s cauldron are nearby, but I’ve never been able to find them, and I don’t suppose I ever will. I will have to sell this house soon, and go someplace that can deal with my medical condition and my advanced years. I should have done it long ago. Too stubborn, that’s all, and I was afraid it would be too much for my wife, too confusing for her in her mental state. All I seek now is somewhere with kind people where Thor will be happy. That would be my Holy Grail.”

“I’m sorry I’ve bothered you,” I said. “Thank you for telling me about Bjarni the Wanderer. It’s a wonderful story. I promise I will try very hard to persuade the people who have your scroll to return it to you. If they don’t do it voluntarily, I’ll think of something. Enjoy the rest of the scotch.” And then I turned, patted Oddi, who got up when I did, and dragged my sorry rear end out the door.

The house was quiet when I got back. The only person who saw me come in was Drever, and I had a sense he’d been waiting for me. I was pretty sure he knew where I’d been. Perhaps he didn’t like the idea of my fraternizing with the neighbors any more than he liked the dogs and Thor visiting the Alexanders’ place. In my opinion it was none of his business. There was a note telling me to help myself to whatever I felt like from the kitchen. I found myself some cold salmon and a salad, and took it up to my sitting room, only to discover that in my absence the Gaudi chair was gone, replaced by another. I wondered how stupid the Alexanders thought I must be.