The Orkney Scroll

Chapter 10

It is here that Bjarni’s tale diverges from what one might expect in a journey of this sort. In other words, it ceases to be consistent with the facts. Up until now, his journey would be similar to that of many Vikings, like Earl Rognvald, for example, who went as far as Constantinople just a hundred or so years later. But Bjarni’s was different, very different from this point on.

Despite Svein’s entreaties, Bjarni and Svein did not return the way they had come, nor did they go directly home. Rather, from Jerusalem they went overland to Baghdad. Baghdad under the Abbasids was the marketplace to the world, a place where the camel caravans from the east came loaded with silks and spices, and men from the north and west, including many Vikings, came to trade, where silver and gold were to be found, along with gems and pearls from the Persian Gulf No doubt Bjarni, flush with his wages and the other loot he’d acquired in his years in the Varangian Guard, and having heard of the riches there, had some trading to do. From there Bjarni and Svein joined a camel caravan for the overland route to Gorgon on the edge of the Caspian Sea. They crossed the Caspian, and then undertook a perilous journey on the Volga River, thence overland on the trade route that took them through what is now Poland and Germany, at that point heading for the north. It was in northern lands that something very strange occurred.

According to the tale, Bjarni became separated from the rest of his group in a storm, not to be reunited with Svein and the others for several days. He wandered in the forest for days, foraging for food, before he came upon an encampment. He found the people there passing strange, but they fed him well, and gave him shelter. In the evening he drank with them, offered a bitter liquid from a large silver cauldron by a beautiful woman. According to Bjarni, while he was in the forest with these people, he had very strange dreams about a disembodied head that spoke to him. Brought before this head, men were stabbed and beheaded, then thrown into a stream. Bjarni, who may not have been well-educated, was not a stupid man, and he began to think that perhaps he hadn’t been dreaming, and furthermore that he was to be a victim. That evening, when a drink from the communal cauldron was passed to him, he only pretended to sip it. Frenzy gripped the group, all of them but Bjarni, and soon the woman who had served him the drink began a dance around him. Bjarni decided this did not bode well. He leapt up, grabbed the cauldron, and ran with it into the forest. For three days he fled, until, exhausted and hungry, he happily came upon his companions.

All admired the cauldron, the beauty of the silver and of the designs that graced its sides and bottom. Some said it was a cauldron fit for a king, or even for a god. They marveled even more at Bjarni’s tale of human sacrifice in the forest. Some were for going back to see if more silver was to be found and to put an end to these practices. Others, more cautious, told Bjarni to leave the cauldron behind, in order not to incur the wrath of the gods to whom it must surely belong. But now Bjarni was truly determined to go home, and to take the cauldron with him.

I was disappointed to learn that Percy wasn’t the grandson of the nice woman in the photograph, not the least because he was yet another person who’d lied to me, and the list of those who had was getting unpleasantly long. His reticence I could understand. I could even make allowances for not telling me his name. Maybe he didn’t like the name Magnus Budge. His bald-faced lie about his granny I couldn’t forgive, nor could I understand why he was always running away from me and refusing to answer my questions, at least right up until the end. What he wouldn’t tell me in life, I was determined to find out now. I just couldn’t figure out how to find his mother. Even I, who has been known to lie from time to time when I thought the occasion called for it, balked at the idea of going to St. Magnus Cathedral and fibbing to that nice clergyman who had come to the police station and worried about my cold hands.

As it turned out, it wasn’t a problem. I went to Percy’s funeral. The forensics expertise outwith Orkney having apparently completed its work, the police released the body. A very small ceremony was held in the very large St. Magnus Cathedral, which is a most extraordinary place, beautiful in red stone, dating to the first half of the twelfth century. Its sheer size and the centuries of history represented there, from St. Magnus himself, appropriately enough in this instance, to its builder St. Rognvald and the rest of the mighty of Orkney, rather overwhelmed the pathetic little group that came for the funeral. It also added some majesty you know, it’s kept me busy. Without Magnus’s help, I can’t manage all the expenses. It was hard enough when he quit his job, but at least he got part-time work, which brought in some cash. I’ve done what the girl on the telly, you know the one who organizes everybody, tells you to. Three groups, she said: keep, sell, and bin it. When I began, I put everything into the keep pile. I couldn’t bring myself to throw out anything belonging to my boy. But Sally down the street came to help me. You met Sally. She’s the girl in the pink jumper.“ I couldn’t remember what a jumper was here, maybe a sweater, and there were no girls in the room, none of them having seen fifty in a while. Still, I knew the woman she meant.

“I’m doing a bit better on the clearing up now that I’m resolved to rent the room. I’m going to send most of his clothes to charity. He only had one good suit, and he’s buried in it. I am sure I can sell his bicycle.”

“I thought the police had his bicycle,” I said.

“They have the one he rented while this one was being repaired. The police had a look at this one, but after all the repairs they said it wasn’t going to be much help. The rental place told me they’d collect the insurance on the one my boy had the day…” She took a lace handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. I patted her arm.

“It won’t be enough to keep me going,” she said, when she’d composed herself. “Selling the bicycle, I mean, but it’s a start. As you can see, the keep pile—that’s the one on the bed—is still the biggest. It’s all his favorite books, mainly, all about King Arthur and everything. He read everything he could find about King Arthur and the Round Table. He was fascinated by Arthur and the rest of the Knights, ever since he was a peedie-breeks.”

“Peedie-breeks?”

“Sorry. A little child. I should be proper spoken while you’re here. He loved King Arthur from the time he was a little boy in school.”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m thinking that the library would like those. I’ll just take a look at them, shall I, and tell you what I think?”

“That would be lovely,” she said. I flipped through them quickly. Percy had highlighted the references to the Grail in all of them, which was hardly a surprise anymore, but as I opened one, a piece of paper fell out. It looked like doodling, but to my eyes, it also looked like the swirls on the bottom of the scroll currently in Willow and Kenny’s hands. “May I keep this?” I said.

Emily looked at it. “Of course you can,” she said. “What is it? A drawing? Magnus wasn’t very artistic, was he? But if you want it, I’d be happy for you to have it.”

“Thank you. Which pile is that one?” I said, pointing to one in the corner. The truth of the matter was that all three piles, keep, sell, and throw out, looked the same in all respects other than size, the “keep” one being the biggest, as Emily had already noted. The one I was pointing at had a collection of bicycle clips, various eyeglass frame parts, half-empty shampoo bottles, and some other stuff I didn’t recognize.

“That’s the pile for the dustbin,” she said. “Not much in it yet, but I’m trying. There are a couple of bicycle parts that are bent and I don’t think anybody could use them. My boy hardly ever threw anything out, as you can see.”

“What is that?” I said, pointing at a large object in the middle of the pile.

“I don’t know. It’s something Magnus brought home the day before he died. I don’t know what possessed him to bring such a dirty thing home. I didn’t even want to let him bring it into the house, but he insisted. That policeman, Cusiter I think he said his name was, said it was one of the least attractive pots he’d ever seen. I wondered if I could use it for a planter. I was thinking that I could put bulbs in it for the spring, but you know I think it’s too ugly even for that purpose.”

I picked it up. It was a very large and dirty flat-bottomed bowl, quite deep and maybe twenty- or twenty-two inches in diameter. It was heavy. I scratched the surface, and then started brushing away at it with my hand. Someone, presumably Percy, had already started that process before I got there. “What are you doing?” Emily asked.

“I’m trying to see what’s under the dirt,” I said.

“Would you like to have it?” she said. “I’d be happy if you’d take it, too.”

“No, Emily. You don’t want to give this away or throw it out. See here,” I said, pointing to an area I had scratched. “I think this might be a trace of silver, and I am going to find out about this for you. I’m an antique dealer, and I think this might be worth something.”

“Would you like to buy it?” she said in a hopeful tone. “I don’t know, would you pay maybe twenty pounds?”

“No, Emily. You don’t understand.”

“Ten pounds then?”

“Emily, you don’t want to give this to me, nor sell it to me either. I am going to rent it from you for a day or two. I will give you…” I stopped and got out my wallet. “I will give you fifty pounds if you’ll let me keep it for a few days. I’m also going to give you a receipt for it, and my business card, so there will be no question it’s yours. Okay?”

“Oh, my,” she said. “You must really think it’s worth something.”

“I think it might be,” I replied. “Although I’m not sure how much you’d get for it. I think a museum might want it.”

“What is it?” she said.

“It’s a cauldron,” I said. “A very old cauldron.”

“You mean for soup, or something? It’s very big.”

“I’m almost certain it’s silver, and just by feel I think there is a raised pattern of some kind on it. More likely it was for some ritual purpose, a very long time ago. It will need a lot of work before anyone could be sure.”

“A hundred years? Two hundred?”

“Maybe a whole lot older than that.”

“Oh, my,” she said again. “Would the Antiques Roadshow be interested in it, do you think? I love that show. To think I almost threw it out.”

“It doesn’t look like much,” I said. “Anybody could make that mistake.”

“It doesn’t,” she agreed.

“I wonder where he found it. Do you have any idea?”

“He was always out on his bicycle,” she said. “I never knew where Magnus went. He wasn’t happy with my move to Kirkwall. What could I do? I couldn’t look after the property when Magnus’s father died. He loved South Ronaldsay, you know. That’s where he lived all his life up until we moved here. We were just south of St. Margaret’s Hope. Once he quit his job, he… You know I haven’t said anything to anybody about this, but you are so nice. I have wondered if Magnus was fired. One day he was working, the next day he wasn’t. He said he resigned. He said he wanted to travel, and he did, you know. He took his savings and went to America. It could be, though, that he wasn’t telling his mother everything.”

Percy wasn’t for telling anybody everything in my experience, but I didn’t say as much. “I’m sure he did go to America. What did your son do for a living?”

“He worked for a moving company. He was strong you know. He looked slight, but with all the cycling and everything he was very strong.” I knew for a fact he had a strong grip, but I didn’t say that either.

“By moving company, you mean he moved furniture?”

“Aye.”

“He didn’t say where he’d been the day he found this?”

“He was always talking in riddles. He had some strange notions. I loved him dearly but he wasn’t one to share his ideas and activities. I think he said something about The Wasteland not being what he thought. I don’t expect that will help you much.”

“Maybe it does. Would you mind lending me a blanket or something to wrap this in and a piece of paper for the receipt? I think it’s time you went back to your other guests. Please don’t say anything to anyone about this. I’m going to see what I can find out about it.”

“You’re a lovely girl,” she said. “I would have liked a daughter-in-law like you. Magnus had girlfriends from time to time, but they didn’t last. He was a little too eccentric, maybe.”

“Hmm,” I said.

All of a sudden, Emily just sort of crumpled. She fell back on the bed, half of the pile of stuff sliding on to the floor as she did so. Then she started to cry. “I don’t know who would do such a terrible thing to my boy. He was stabbed many times, you know. I suppose you do, seeing as how you were with him. The police say he wasn’t stabbed in that bunker, but they have no idea where. It could be anywhere. I can’t sleep, you know. I’m frightened, and I don’t understand any of this. This doesn’t happen here. I don’t lock my door when I go out, at least I didn’t before this happened. The police say it may have been someone who came in on the ferry and left, and we’ll never know. How can this be? Why my Magnus?”

“I’m going to get Sally,” I said, going out to the living room and signaling to the woman in the bright pink sweater. In a few minutes Emily had composed herself, and we were back eating sandwiches and drinking tea as if nothing had happened. Her friends were curious about the large object wrapped in a blanket, but Emily told them I was finding a good home for something of her son’s at her request. A half hour later, feeling absolutely dreadful, I took my leave, but not without one more question. “Do you know that man standing down the road there? The one in army fatigues?”

“I’ve never seen him before,” Emily said. “I wonder what he’s doing just hanging about like that.”

I knew what he was doing. He was watching me. “Is there another way out of here?” I asked. “I know who it is. I just don’t want him to see me with this.” Fortunately there was not only a backdoor, but a gate and a lane that took me back to the church and my car. Emily hugged me several times as I left. “You’ll be hearing from me very soon,” I told her. “I promise.” A few minutes later, I hit the road with what I was certain was a treasure in the trunk. I sincerely hoped Drever the Intimidating, who was rapidly working his way up the scale to Drever the Scary, got very wet waiting for me to come out the front door.

I was making a lot of promises these days, both to myself and other people, even if it seemed way beyond my power to do anything at all, let alone fix it. And she was right. This kind of thing should not happen anywhere, but somehow it particularly shouldn’t happen in Orkney, where the people were decent and law-abiding and really nice in a reserved way. While I was looking for a piece of furniture, or not even that, the source of a piece of furniture to resurrect my tattered reputation, a rather superficial goal to be sure, Percy, who was looking for the Holy Grail was stabbed several times some place unknown, then dumped in a bunker. It was just too awful. I knew I was getting close on the furniture. The germ of an idea of what this was all about was growing in my mind. But it didn’t seem that important anymore. It would have to wait. I was going to do what little I could for some people in Orkney: Percy and Sigurd Haraldsson and Thor.

The question was where to start. The Haraldssons and Percy seemed to me to be inextricably linked by one Bjarni the Wanderer, fictional character or real historical person it mattered not. The Haraldssons were the keepers of Bjarni’s saga, just as the wounded king was guardian of the Grail. The saga told the story of a cauldron of obviously great beauty, and at the time much significance, and part of that saga was a scroll that might or might not point in the direction of the hiding place of that cauldron, something called the tomb of the orcs.

Percy was not looking for a Viking cauldron. He was looking for the Holy Grail. Somehow the cauldron and the Grail were one and the same in Percy’s mind. It was possible, too, I suppose. I knew just enough about the Grail legends to know that people believed the Grail existed, and that the quest for it was tied to Arthurian legend. The Grail was supposed to be somewhere in the British Isles, and at one time had no association with what we now know as The Holy Grail. It was a magic cauldron pure and simple. It didn’t matter if Percy was confusing two different objects or even mythologies. Percy had shown me a photograph that I thought was of a piece of furniture, but was really a photograph of the scroll. He had come all the way to Canada to try to find it, so clearly it was important. Airfare wasn’t cheap, and Percy wasn’t rich.

Trevor Wylie had somehow come into possession of that scroll. Willow had found it amongst his belongings when he died. He got it legally or otherwise, when he purchased the furniture. Had the nice woman in the photograph, the one with dementia, simply given it to him not realizing what she was doing? Did he just take it off the wall at the same time he talked her out of the furniture? I wouldn’t put it past him. It didn’t matter really. Both Trevor and Sigurd’s wife were dead. The important questions right now were why would Trevor take it? Was it just because it looked a little bit old and was there to be taken or was Willow correct in saying that Trevor was off to hunt for treasure? If the latter, what would make him think it was a treasure map? Was he a Viking expert, too? And how had Percy known about the scroll?

When I thought about it, though, I knew how Percy had seen it. He had gone to get the Mackintosh furniture, real or otherwise, I couldn’t tell from the photograph, for Trevor. I couldn’t prove it at this moment, but I was willing to bet that there’d be an invoice from an Orkney mover in Trevor’s files, and that mover would have been Percy’s employer. I was so busy looking for something that could be the Mackintosh, both of them, that I hadn’t worried about who had transported and shipped it. But why had Percy come looking for the scroll, if indeed that was what he had been looking for? How could he have any idea as to its significance in the tale of Bjarni the Wanderer? It could still have been the cabinet he was looking for. He never said that it wasn’t that I could recall. No matter which way I turned, the furniture and the scroll and therefore two murders kept intersecting in a way I did not understand.

For the sake of argument, I assumed Percy had seen the scroll, framed on the wall above the cabinet. How did he know what it was? In a way, I suppose, it didn’t matter. No matter how he’d seen the scroll, I thought it very possible that Percy had found not just a cauldron, but the cauldron. And then Percy had been killed. Had he been killed in the tomb of the orcs? Was that why the police could find no trace of the initial scene of the crime? And if so, where was this tomb? If Percy could find it, so could I. I had seen him cycle by the Alexanders’ place the day before he died. I think I would have noticed if he had a cauldron on his handlebars. He had come home that day with it, though. At least that is what Emily said, and she now seemed to be completely alert. So he had found it somewhere later that day, and my guess was Hoxa. It fit with Bjarni’s saga and also with Percy’s one known location that day. Did people get killed because they were looking for the Holy Grail? Surely not. Did this mean this was still about a piece of furniture? A hugely expensive piece of furniture, that is.

The day he had died, and I had forgotten this, I had seen Willow and Kenny go by on Kenny’s motorcycle. They were heading for Hoxa. I hadn’t seen them later. They were liars, but were they murderers, too? Did they kill Percy because he found the tomb of the orcs and the treasure before they did? Did they try to torture him into telling them where it was? I felt sick.

And Lester: where did he fit in all this? Friend and dealer to the magnificent Alexanders, he had shown up on Orkney and just happened to run into Kenny and Willow, had he? When I’d asked how they knew each other, one had said Glasgow University, the other Edinburgh. I guess they hadn’t had time to get their story straight when I came upon them in that restaurant. Yes, Orkney, at least the Mainland was a small place, but was their meeting just too much of a coincidence?

I was coming to realize that I had too many questions, and that I had missed an opportunity to get answers to at least some of them. Like Perceval, I hadn’t asked the right question at the right moment. But unlike Perceval, I thought I might get a second chance. First, though, I was going to keep my promise to Sigurd Haraldsson.

What had started out as drizzle was now a gathering storm. Some of the darkest clouds I’ve ever seen sat poised on the horizon, and the wind was beginning to howl. It was, as one of Emily’s neighbors put it, “a peedie bit of a puff.” The water on the roads swirled in little eddies ahead of me. I was heading for Willow’s BB when I saw Kenny’s motorcycle in front of the Quoyburray Inn. They were seated once again in a corner of the bar. Celtic music was blaring through the sound system. They didn’t look that happy to see me. I didn’t waste any time with small talk.

“I’ve come to get the scroll. You have to give it back to its rightful owner. It’s not yours. Trevor stole it. The true owner isn’t going to look for the treasure. He gave up on that long ago, and even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to do it. He says you are welcome to take a copy of it, and look as long as you like. But you really do have to give it back to him.”

“How do you know Trevor didn’t buy it?” Willow demanded.

“Because I know it wasn’t for sale.” That was true, but it was still possible that Sigurd’s wife had simply given it away, a bit of information I considered unnecessary for the purposes of this conversation.

“We don’t have it with us.”

“Then go and get it. I’ll even come back with you to pick it up.”

“Why should we believe you are going to give it to its rightful owner? Would it surprise you to know that Kenny and I don’t find you particularly trustworthy, Lara?” Willow said. “How do we know you won’t take it for yourself, because you know there is some secret code in the lining or something that will lead you to the treasure? You have not been open and honest with us.”

“Stop right there, Willow. Don’t you talk to me about honesty and trust. I told you I was coming to Orkney and that is exactly what I did. You, on the other hand, didn’t bother to tell me you were coming here. Please don’t lie to me again about the e-mail. I don’t believe that, nor do I believe you were looking for me either. You could have found me if you wanted to. Heaven knows you passed me on the highway often enough. You uncovered what you thought was a treasure map and decided to find it for yourself. I do not give two hoots about your treasure, believe me. I do care about some people here who are either dead, or in desperate straits.”

“I meant to send an e-mail,” Willow said. “I don’t know. I got so excited about this treasure map…”

“As for you, Kenny,” I said, ignoring her. “I’m wondering what your surname is, and what your true relationship to this whole issue might be. Because it has just occurred to me as I look at you, Kenny, that you bear a certain resemblance to one Trevor Wylie. You wouldn’t happen to be a relative, would you?”

Kenny blushed and nodded. “Cousin,” he said, hanging his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s just so easy to forget to mention little details like that, isn’t it? You know, I found it difficult to believe that the two of you met on the ferry, and that Willow, you would just immediately tell this stranger all about the treasure. I suppose you and Trevor stayed in touch over the years since he left Orkney, right, Kenny?”

Kenny nodded again. The proverbial cat had apparently got his tongue.

“But…” Willow said.

“Shut up. Let me tell you both something. I have your precious cauldron. What I don’t have is the location of the tomb, and I want to find it because the person who uncovered the cauldron died the day after he found it. People here think I’m going to believe a whole bunch of coincidences, for example the one in which you just happen to run into Lester in Kirkwall, but this coincidence, and someone dying the day after he finds a treasure, doesn’t wash with me.

“But…”

“So this is what is going to happen. This afternoon we are all going to a place I like to call The Wasteland. You are going to bring the scroll with you and you will meet the man who owns your cute little treasure map, a man whose family has kept Bjarni the Wanderer’s story alive for hundreds of years. He’s a disabled World War Two veteran, and he’s eighty-nine years old. He is trying to look after his son who is also disabled, albeit in a different way. He will tell you the story of Bjarni the Wanderer if you let him. And then I am going to show him the cauldron, explain about the woman I have borrowed it from, and you are going to give back that scroll. If you don’t, I’m going to the police to tell them you possess stolen property. Do not delude yourself into thinking that I won’t. Here is the map to The Wasteland. Be there at five o’clock or else.”

“But…” Willow protested again.

“Don’t say one more word to me. I am completely disgusted with you. You are as bad as Trevor ever was. And by the way, it is a camel.” Then I stomped out of the place, slamming the door so hard I rattled the windows. It was not my finest hour, but I was far too angry to care. I didn’t even bother to wave to Drever the Scary, who clearly had learned tracking skills in the army, as I left. Maya said she thought Drever was always watching her. I knew for certain he was spying on me, and right now he was going to have to hurry to keep up with me.