The Orkney Scroll

Epilogue

And there you have it, Bjarni’s story. You can see why there are those who think there is treasure to be found. Bjarni’s travels took him to places both exotic and spiritual. People draw their own conclusions as to what Bjarni found, and indeed what has been lost. If it is gold and jewels from Constantinople or Baghdad you seek, or gifts worthy of a caliph of Spain, or religious icons of incomparable worth, then Bjarni’s saga gives you cause for hope. I was always amazed at the theories my students would invent, in terms of what happened to Bjarni, and what the real treasure might be. It seemed to stimulate their creativity in ways that other lessons did not, perhaps because there was no proof, and therefore their imaginations could roam at will. My grandfather was convinced that a piece of the True Cross acquired by Bjarni during his stint in the Varangian Guard would be found in the tomb of the orcs, along with the pagan cauldron. If that is what you choose to believe, the evidence is there.

You can decide for yourself if you think the saga is true. Some consider Bjarni’s story absolute rubbish. I am not one of those. Can I prove it? No. Does that matter? It does to some, those who would see and hold the evidence, but not to me. I suppose if I could find the tomb of the orcs, then that would go some distance toward silencing the skeptics. If I could find the cauldron, those who now scoff would at least be forced to listen and consider what the saga reveals. But in truth it doesn’t matter. I know what happened. When I sit here watching a storm blow through, or the sunset turn the sea and sky to purple, or a soft mist clinging to the dark slopes of Hoy across the water, I know I’m hearing the same wind, watching the same mist and sky and sea that Bjarni did. We both have Orkney in our blood. That’s what matters to me.

In Orkney they believe that Thorfinn Skull-Splitter, earl of Orkney, father of Hlodovir, grandfather of Earl Sigurd the Stout, the man to whom Bjarni the Wanderer gave his loyalty and trust, was buried in 976 in the Howe of Hoxa, a crumbling prehistoric broch or tower filled now with weeds and stones. If the Skull-Splitter, one of the first Orkney Vikings to die in his bed rather than in battle, really is there, he has a very good view for all eternity. I know, because I set out to find the spot before I left for home. It seemed fitting somehow, given the way this all started, that I should spend a moment at Skull-Splitter’s grave.

As I stood in what remains of the broch looking out over the clear blue waters of Scapa Flow, or rather what Thorfinn would have known as Skalpeid-floi, I thought about how it is impossible for us to know if the moment in time in which we find ourselves is the cusp of a glorious era, or merely its dismal, if not catastrophic, end. Politicians try to persuade us that through them lies a brilliant and prosperous future, doomsayers may warn that the rot has set in and the end is near, but when it comes right down to it, we can never know.

Bjarni certainly didn’t know that his time was over, that he and his people, once rulers of the northern seas, would become frozen in time as mere nuisances at best, violent thugs at worst, in the onward march of civilization. Bjarni thought he’d come back to find his world the same as it had ever been, that if anyone had changed it was he with his great adventures, and a magnificent silver cauldron to prove it. He was perhaps no more nor less realistic than those who came after him, those seeking the cauldron, or a chalice, or even the Holy Grail, imbuing the object with spiritual significance way beyond its physical presence. But it was a pot, useful perhaps for food and drink, and even, in the beauty of its workmanship, an object to inspire. Still, it was a pot.

Both Trevor and Percy saw the scroll framed above the reproduction Mackintosh. They both knew what they were looking at, because they’d both been in one of Sigurd’s classes more than thirty years before. Percy, like so many of Sigurd’s students, loved the tale, and when he later came to read Arthurian legend, he put the two stories together in his mind, saw connections that weren’t there and determined to find the Grail.

Percy’s quest took him far afield. He must have realized what had happened to the scroll, because he followed Trevor to Toronto to get it. I like to think he would have returned it had he found it, but I’m not really sure. What I do know is that his quest took him to the tomb of the orcs. He was stabbed there, according to police who found traces of his blood, and the knife with Drever’s prints on it. I don’t know whether he went back a second time to see what else there was to be found and was discovered there by Drever just as I was, or whether Drever or Robert enticed him back to his death.

I still have mixed feelings about Percy. If there was anyone whose time was long past, it was he. I believe that it was Percy who hid in my shop after it closed for the day, and then ransacked the place looking for the scroll. He didn’t trust me, not then anyway, but I didn’t trust him either. I think that explains why he was always running away from me, because he thought I was about to accuse him of that crime. I also think he wanted to tell me what he had done the day we went touring together. As far as the shop is concerned, he didn’t steal anything, he didn’t break anything. I am trying to just close the door on that one.

Unlike Percy, Trevor helped himself to the scroll. Either that or Betty Haraldsson, lost in her dementia, gave it to a fellow she doubtless thought was charming. No doubt Trevor thought he was on the cusp of some great new life. He’d found his own grail, and it had nothing to do with a cauldron. Instead his time was up: he was on his way down the basement stairs.

Trevor apparently was born a rogue. There were a lot of questions I failed to ask at Sigurd’s house that first afternoon. Sigurd told me that one of his students faked a scroll and tried to sell it to the museum. I did not ask that student’s name, but could it possibly have been the man who ended up dead as a result of having tried to fake something again? Sigurd confirmed later when, unlike Perceval, I got a second chance to ask questions that it had in fact been Trevor. Trevor was sent to a strict boarding school in Glasgow in order to avoid more serious charges. He left both school and Scotland as soon as he could, which may explain why he never talked about Orkney.

As the police have pieced it together, Trevor was forced to help Robert and Blair move their furniture back and forth because of his gambling debts. He got the real Mackintosh from Alexander, who had purchased it many years earlier from Lester, made up a phony invoice and had it shipped, probably for a relatively small commission, one that would not even come close to paying off his gambling debts.

Sometimes I try to imagine how Trevor felt when he first saw the reproduction that Thor had made. It must have seemed a godsend, as a plan to solve all his problems began to form. I expect it was Alexander who told Trevor about Thor, never guessing the purpose to which he would put that information. Trevor purchased Thor’s reproduction, made up another bogus invoice and separately shipped both that and the real Mackintosh to his store. I think he did some work on the fake to make sure the wear on the drawer and legs matched, at least from a distance, that of the original. He showed Blair the real one, got my approval, however tentative, but delivered the fake. Then he turned around and sold the first one a second time, planning to simply take the money and run. He didn’t make it.

The question was where had the real Mackintosh gone? I told the police what I thought, and they paid a visit to Desmond Crane, search warrant in hand, and found the Mackintosh writing cabinet in a room hidden behind a fake bookcase. The Mackintosh’s lock, I can tell you, was just fine. Blair must have been feeling pretty smug about getting to the Mackintosh before Dez did, while he was having an affair with Dez’s wife. Dez, who didn’t know about Leanna and Blair, must have been feeling pretty smug about owning the real one, too. Neither of them is feeling particularly cocky now. You have to wonder why someone like Crane would pay that much money for something he couldn’t show to anybody, but as Clive is always pointing out, rich people are not like you and me. True collectors aren’t either. I suppose it was enough for Crane just to possess it, but for some reason that fact depressed me. I mean if the rot is setting in, this surely is a sign.

In addition to the Mackintosh, police found a number of objects including a pair of bronze candlesticks from McClintoch Swain that Desmond hadn’t paid for. Or rather he hadn’t paid us. He’d paid the thieves who’d stolen them in the first place. Antiques thought lost forever by other dealers in town turned up, too, which also proves, I suppose, that even people with pots of money like to get stuff cheap. Crane swears he had no idea he was purchasing stolen goods. I don’t know whether anyone will be able to prove otherwise or not. At least the break-ins seem to have come to an end.

I sincerely hope the era of men like Robert Alexander, Blair Baldwin, and Drever Clark is fast coming to a close. The Churchill Barriers that I crossed so often while in Orkney were built during World War Two to provide safe haven from German U-boats for the British fleet in Scapa Flow. They could not stop people like Alexander, however, who used his army connections, including Drever, to find a source for heroin in Afghanistan, and to bring it in to Scotland via Orkney. Heroin is a terrible scourge there, particularly in Edinburgh, according to Rob, and Alexander and Drever must share some of the blame for that. The police here believe that Blair was a major player in cocaine in Toronto, and he and Alexander had begun to have unpleasant business dealings.

An international team has been struck to piece this all together, including, I’m proud to say, my sweetie, lovely man that he is. Rob wasn’t thrilled with my participation in Blair’s arrest, but we both did what we had to do. It seems clear that Blair is also going to jail for a long time, not, as I hoped, for the murder of Trevor Wylie, but for money laundering and drug dealing. So far that’s the best anybody can do, but they’re working on it.

Robert Alexander died virtually instantly at Maya’s hands, and Drever has been charged with Percy’s murder and numerous drug offences. Drever isn’t looking nearly as good as he used to after his encounter with Oddi and Svein. Ask me if I care. Actually, I shouldn’t say that. I do care, very, very much what happens to people like him. It does seem rather fitting though, that in a way, and after about a thousand years, Oddi and Svein took their revenge on Bjarni’s killer.

The body of one Douglas “Dog” Sykes was found in a field north of the city a few weeks after I got home. There was no sign of his Doberman, and no identification or money on him. The police had believed he robbed Trevor of the money he received from the second sale of the Mackintosh, then was robbed and killed in turn. That theory held until over a million dollars was found in a locker, the key to which was hidden in Trevor’s shop. Now the police have turned their attention back to Blair.

Leanna the Lush, then, is key to the resolution of who killed Trevor. Right now she and Dez are in divorce court. I would not want to be in Leanna’s shoes for anything. She provided her lover Blair with an alibi, probably sincerely convinced he was innocent, only to find him arrested on a different set of charges. Technically this leaves an axe murderer at large, but the police aren’t looking too hard for one, convinced that Blair was guilty of that crime, too, and that Leanna was lying. I think she was, too, but I am not entirely convinced she knows it. She always seemed a little befuddled to me, and her powers of observation suspect. She doesn’t seem to have noticed, for example, that both her husband and her lover had identical pieces of furniture, but maybe Dez wouldn’t let even his wife see it. I think it’s possible that Blair killed Trevor, and then met Leanna for their usual assignation, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she chose to forget he was not there the whole time. But even if she is lying outright, what should she do? If she retracts her statement about Blair’s whereabouts during the time period Trevor died, she might find herself up on a perjury charge. If she doesn’t, she can hardly be staying mum because she continues to believe Blair is an upstanding citizen. Dez has made it very clear he won’t take her back.

Sigurd Haraldsson moved into a nursing home where I believe he is comfortable. The Wasteland is up for sale. He writes to me from time to time in an increasingly shaky hand, and I’m always glad to hear from him. His move was made possible by the fact that Thor is living in Percy’s room in Emily Budge’s home. I introduced them, I’m pleased to say. Emily lets Thor use the basement for his workshop, and he has made her home very beautiful, as the photographs she sends me attest, and he has no trouble coming up with the rent. It is no crime to make a fake. It is only a crime if it is offered for sale as the genuine article, if there is a real attempt to deceive. It seemed to me, though, that Thor’s talent could be put to better purpose. I talked to some architects I know, and when they need custom furniture, they send the plans to Thor. His work is exceptional, worth the extra cost for the freight.

Thor apparently is happy living with Emily. I can believe it. Emily will be fussing over him all the time, serving him those lovely sandwiches with no crusts with his tea. Emily, at the age of sixty-four, got her driver’s license, bless her, and she drives Thor over to see his father several times a week in the van that Sigurd gave her. She also takes Thor to visit Svein and Oddi who now belong to a pleasant farm family who let the dogs run free, and who are always happy to see Thor.

Willow has recovered completely, although she had a really severe concussion that worried us all. She and Kenny plan to marry. They’re going to live in Edinburgh and spend as much time as possible in Orkney. I envy them that. I’ve had to admit that much of what she told me was true. Oh, there were exaggerations and omissions and questionable explanations, but at the heart of it, she didn’t lie. I suppose there are parallels here to Bjarni’s story, and the necessity to work hard to find the nugget of truth amid the fiction. In Willow’s case, I proved not particularly adept at separating the wheat from the chaff. The truth of it is this: she discovered that Trevor had a relative in Orkney when the legal process to determine who was to inherit the proceeds from the sale of the contents of Trevor’s store got underway. As she had in fact told me she would, she decided to go and see this relative of Trevor’s, that is to say Kenny, and make a plea for some of the money. She didn’t tell me because she was going to Edinburgh, not Orkney and didn’t expect to see me.

It was the scroll that changed her plans. She found it, and rightly determining it came from Scotland, took it with her. Kenny, who could read runic script, told her what it said, and the two of them headed for Orkney. They didn’t meet on the ferry, but according to Willow that is where they fell head over heels in love. She didn’t tell me any of this because she was rather embarrassed about it at first, and then there was a period of time in which we both viewed each other with suspicion. I think it would be good if Willow got the million dollars found in the safety deposit box, because after all, Trevor did sell the real Mackintosh, and Dez really paid for it. I think it will be some time before that is decided, though, but I don’t think Willow will be overly upset if she doesn’t see any of it.

Kenny really did know Lester from the university. Lester was investigated for months, but no involvement in Alexander’s drug business was found. Lester told me that he hadn’t revealed to me that he had sold a Mackintosh writing cabinet to Robert that first day we met in his shop, because he believed that what his clients did or did not purchase and for how much was a confidential matter, and you know I have to agree with him. He did what he could to help me by suggesting I go to the gala, and by introducing me to Robert and Maya. It did have the required result eventually, and he has apologized about it a hundred times. He had no idea Robert had sent the writing cabinet to Blair.

What is to happen to the cauldron is still up in the air. Under the law of Treasure Trove in Scotland, objects like the cauldron have to be reported, and authorities will decide on their disposition. Simon Spence tells me it is an extraordinary find. In it scientists found traces of a hallucinogenic substance, which may explain what happened to Bjarni in the tomb. Spence believes it was used in rituals in ancient times, one in which sacrificial victims were beheaded. The severed head that speaks was an important symbol in ancient mythology, according to Simon.

As far as Bjarni’s saga itself is concerned, though, it raises more questions than it answers. The cauldron, which scientists believe does indeed come from Northern Europe, predates Bjarni by at least a thousand years. The tomb in which Percy found it—and soil analysis does place the cauldron in that tomb—is three thousand years older than that. Does that mean that when Bjarni’s saga was first written down a fragment of a much earlier tale insinuated itself into the story? Did Bjarni come upon an isolated cult that was still practicing rituals from a much earlier time? Did he simply find, or perhaps more likely, steal the cauldron and make up the story about his capture in the forest to explain his extended absence to his traveling companions? We will never know.

Despite that, Spence is coming around to believing much of Bjarni’s tale, even if no one will ever prove it, in no small measure because of a runic inscription found in the tomb of the orcs that essentially says “Bjarni Haraldsson was here.” It’s possible that someone in relatively recent times saw the runic inscription and perhaps even the cauldron and invented a story to go with them, rather than the other way around, so Bjarni’s story remains one that you can believe or not as you choose.

The cauldron is priceless, of course, not that Emily Budge or Sigurd will ever see any money from it. Neither of them seems terribly upset about this, bless their hearts. They just want to see that it is placed somewhere it will be appreciated. They have agreed that if it is donated, the donor recognition will be to both Sigurd and Thor Haraldsson and Magnus Budge. It is very beautiful, now that conservators have had at it. Much of the silver gilt is still there, and there are embossed panels that show a scene in a forest with stags and a disembodied head that looks as if it is about to speak. Bjarni’s story gains more credence with me every day.

Maya Alexander was not charged in her husband’s death. We all testified that it was self-defense and that she had indeed saved us all. She is back in New York, Maya Hausman now, having gone back to her maiden name, something I’d have done in a flash, too, if I had found myself in her situation. She’s looking for a job, given her late husband’s assets are all frozen. It was not my powers of persuasion that convinced her to believe me and not her husband that fateful day. It was not even Willow lying in the mud unconscious. Instead, it was one of those moments when everything one has been trying to pretend doesn’t exist just cannot be ignored any longer. In Maya’s mind, her friend Bev and Robert were the perfect couple, and it is possible that Maya was always secretly in love with her best friend’s husband. Bev tried to confide in her, but Maya either could not, or would not, hear what Bev had to say. On that fateful day in the rain, suddenly everything Maya feared was exposed, the message was crystal clear. And, as Robert put it, she knew what she had to do. It was perhaps not what he had in mind. She says one of her real regrets, other than not realizing what was happening to her friend, and what kind of poor excuse for a human being Robert was, is that she will never feel able to go back to Orkney. The place, she says, has gotten under her skin.

I can understand that. Despite all that had happened in Orkney, I kept thinking of its rolling countryside, the soft touch of the air, the clouds coming down to kiss the green slopes, the shining water of St. Margaret’s Hope, where children play, and even the wild fury of the wind and the sea. Most of all I think of the kindness of strangers. Percy said he was looking for salvation there. I doubt salvation was his. He said I went to Orkney to seek vindication, and I think I can say with some justification that I found it. But more than that, I gained a profound sense of history as a continuous stream, as a living presence in our lives. I’m happy to have breathed the same air, felt the same rain, and watched the same sunsets as Percy, Sigurd, Thor, and yes, Bjarni the Wanderer. If there is treasure to be found in Orkney, I believe that is where it lies.