The Canary Keeper, page 16
‘I’ve been teaching Solly to speak your language.’ The girls’ expressions remain blank. She has another go. She points at the sledge in Hope’s hand.
‘Qamutik.’
The parrot shouts, ‘Who’s a pretty girl then?’ He bobs on his perch. The girls laugh with delight.
‘Perhaps you can teach Solly some words?’
They exchange glances and approach the cage. Hope raises the sledge.
‘Qamutik.’
Birdie is gratified to hear her pronunciation is not too inaccurate. Grace joins in the lesson. ‘Qamutik.’
Solly bobs and preens, though shows no inclination whatsoever to utter anything other than his well-worn phrases. ‘Who’s a pretty girl then? Who’s a pretty boy then?’
She rebukes the bird. ‘You’re supposed to be copying Hope and Grace.’
The parrot is affronted, ruffles his feathers and shrieks, ‘Skin for a skin.’
The twins jump like startled rabbits. They glance at each other with terrified eyes, retreat from the cage, grab the sledge and canoe, scuttle for the parlour door, clatter up the stairs and slam their bedroom door. Alarmed by their reaction, Birdie races after them to the hall.
‘Hope. Grace. Please, come down.’
There is no response. Birdie hesitates by the parlour door, perturbed. The parrot’s imitation of Frank was sinister yet hardly sufficient, she feels, to cause such a reaction. The parrot shuffles to the far end of his perch and turns his grey back on Birdie, as if he realizes he is the cause of the commotion and is ashamed by his own behaviour.
She climbs the stairs and, at the top, turns left to the front of the house – the ben-end, Margaret calls it. She has not visited this part of the premises before. She knocks on the first door along the landing. Silence. She panics, fearing they may have scrambled out the window and run away. She twists the handle, leans her shoulder against the door and almost tumbles over the threshold. A musty smell fills the room. A wooden boxbed occupies one wall, its heavy red curtain drawn.
‘Grace. Hope. It’s me. Birdie.’
Snuffling comes from behind the curtain. Thank the Lord they have not disappeared.
‘Will you come out?’
No reaction.
She assesses the room. A wooden press holds piles of neatly folded smocks, socks, blankets and gloves. The sight of what looks like a heap of dead animal skins on the floor disconcerts her, until she realizes they are the girls’ deerskin parkas – the source of the cloying smell she assumes. The sledge and canoe rest in front of the boxbed where they have been dropped by the girls in their haste to hide themselves behind the curtain.
‘Please don’t be scared.’
Silence.
‘What scared you? Was it Solly?’ she persists, certain they comprehend at least some of what she says. ‘Solly didn’t mean to upset you.’
A low murmur comes from behind the curtain; Hope and Grace conferring. She waits. Outside, men shout. Sheep bleat. A dog barks. Barrels clank as they are rolled along the street. Beyond the slate roofs opposite, through the spears of rain, the canopy of sycamore is visible, rooks flapping, circling and landing.
‘Please tell me what scared you.’
The curtain twitches and two faces appear side by side, black eyes unblinking. She finds it easier to tell them apart these days. Hope’s hair is straight as a poker. Grace’s hair has the slightest wave and she has more freckles. Hope is taller by a whisker. Their temperaments are different too; Hope is bolder, the leader. Grace hangs back and is more considered. And now it’s Hope who sits up first, swings her stockinged feet over the side of the bed and grips the wooden frame with her hands. Still, she says nothing.
‘Was it the words? Skin for a skin?’ Birdie repeats the phrase as softly as she can. Even so, Hope emits a startled cry.
She tries to imagine why the phrase might scare them and conjures up her own childhood terrors: dead men hanging, the miasma of the river, the eels with their razor-sharp teeth which inhabited the Neckinger and could, Frank insisted, rip your foot from your ankle if you slipped and fell on its muddy banks. And then she remembers the girls’ reaction when she pretended to be a monster that night at Warbeth.
‘Did Solly’s words make you think of a monster?’
Grace says nothing.
‘Not monster,’ Hope says. ‘The mast—’
‘No,’ Grace shouts. She is usually so quiet. They stare at each other; silent messages pass between them. Grace shakes her head almost imperceptibly. Birdie watches, trying to intercept their psychic conversation without much luck.
Hope turns to look at her and says, ‘Monster.’
Birdie is not sure she has heard correctly. She leans forward and repeats the word. ‘Monster?’
Hope and Grace flinch in unison.
‘Have you ever seen this monster?’
They shake their heads.
She sinks to the floor, her black skirt fanning like a raven’s tail around her knees, her face now level with the girls’ eyes. ‘Did Tobias tell you about this monster?’
Hope nods. Birdie nearly gasps, surprised at having her suspicions confirmed, then nods back reassuringly.
Birdie picks the wooden sledge from the floor and twists it in her hands. ‘Tobias told you a story about a monster?’
Hope nods again and glances over her shoulder at Grace. They murmur something to each other. Grace shuffles and perches next to Hope; they tremble like two nervous swallows balancing on a fence.
‘The monster skins people and eats them,’ Hope says.
Grace clutches her sister’s arm. Birdie shudders and tries to block Frank’s voice from her mind. Skin for a skin. Skin for a skin.
‘A polar bear?’ Birdie suggests.
The girls shoot each other sideways glances.
‘Not an animal,’ Hope says.
‘A person?’
‘Kabloona,’ Grace says quite suddenly.
‘Pardon?’
‘Kabloona.’
Birdie attempts the word. ‘Kabloona? Is that the monster’s name?’
Grace nods and hugs Hope. They gape, their eyes round with terror.
Birdie edges closer to the bed. ‘Please. Don’t be scared. There is no monster here.’
Still, they are petrified.
‘Solly is very fond of both of you.’ This is true; the bird revels in their attention. ‘He is upset that he scared you.’
Finally Hope shifts her gaze and Grace relaxes her grip on her sister.
‘Do you want to come downstairs again and see if we can get any further with his lesson? Tukisiviit?’
The twins do not respond; perhaps she has misremembered the word. ‘Tukisiviit? Do you understand?’
This time Hope grins, and corrects her pronunciation. ‘Too-kee-see-veet.’
Birdie repeats, ‘Too-kee-see-veet?’
Grace replies, ‘We understand.’
‘Good. Let’s find Solly.’ The parrot’s utterance might have terrified them, but it has also prompted them to communicate with her.
*
The kirk bell tolls, marking the end of the evening service. Margaret has returned from Kirkwall and retired to her bedchamber. The rain has stopped. Birdie slips from Narwhal House, under the whalebone arch. She takes a deep breath of fresh night air; it’s a relief to be outside after so many days cooped up inside. Two schooners have anchored in the harbour and the main street is alive with drunken sailors belting out ribald songs. Head down, the hood of her cape shading her face, she wills herself invisible as she marches along the street. She is about to take the muddy track up Brinkie’s Brae when a hand grabs her arm. She twists around and finds herself looking at an eye patch. Her stomach sinks. It’s the detective. The broken veins on his cheeks burn angrily. He reeks of liquor.
‘Not a good night for a walk. There’s a storm coming; the ships are sheltering in the harbour.’
‘Another storm?’ She tries to sound unflustered. ‘There’s been nothing but rain this past month.’
‘You’d better be heading home.’
‘I’m not going far.’
‘You’re going to visit Morag Firth.’
Her pulse races; how much does he know about her?
‘Sir, please let me go, you’re hurting me.’
He drops her arm and jabs his finger at her face. ‘Morag Firth does the devil’s work.’
His face is distorted with vitriol; it would be foolhardy to argue with him, but she is determined not to let him deter her from her course. She is doing nothing wrong.
‘Thank you for your warnings, but I wish to take a breath of fresh air while it’s dry.’ She strides away before he has a chance to say any more.
A wet blast hits her cheek as she crests the hill. Behind the cliffs of Hoy, the sky is filthy yellow. To the west, black clouds tower. Seething waves pound the shore. The detective is right about one thing: a storm is coming. She has never seen anything like it. In London, nature is poisoned by the city; choking fogs mix with factory smoke and force gas lights on in mid-afternoon, winds are broken by the grimy walls of factories and warehouses. Here the wild darkness is like a beast unleashed and it fuels her fear of the darker forces on this island.
She reaches the kirkyard and pauses for breath. Blue lightning flashes above the waves and turns the black gloom crimson. She looks to the horizon as a white fork cracks and blazes and, in the moment of illumination, she sees the tortured face of a woman etched in the storm clouds, her features twisted with pain, her mouth gasping for air among the smoke and flames that engulf her blistering flesh. Birdie cries out. An explosion of thunder rocks the ground, and the sky is obliterated by the downpour. Birdie is momentarily winded by the fleeting vision of the woman, burning at the stake. It feels like a warning, a reminder of her own peril. She lifts her arms and shouts in rage at the heavens. The rain lashes her face and drenches her cape. She has to run. She sets off across the headland, the mud squelching beneath her boots.
‘Are ye mad?’ Morag holds the door open for her.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Could it no have waited for the morning?’ Morag ushers her inside.
Wind howls down the chimney, blows smoke into the room and sets the line of splayed fish clattering.
Morag reaches for the kettle.
‘Tea?’
She nods. She needs something soothing; the detective and the vision of the burning woman have disturbed her. Morag hangs the kettle on a hook above the hearth. The thunder blasts overhead and rattles pots and pans. Rain cascades down the windows.
‘The first storm of the season.’ Morag says it with glee. ‘The ships returning from the Nor’ West will be setting sail soon.’ She leans, warms her hands in front of the flames. Her damp clothes steam.
‘Tell me then, what could be so important you risk the storm to see me?’
‘The twins.’
Morag twists around sharply. ‘What’s happened?’
‘They’re safe at home with Margaret. I was left alone with them this afternoon and I managed to persuade them to speak a little. The words you taught me helped.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘It was the parrot, though, that set them off.’
‘Ah. The famous parrot. You must introduce me to the bird some time. What did he say?’
‘Skin for a skin.’
Morag seems perplexed.
‘It’s a peculiar phrase he picked up from his previous owner.’ Birdie is too ashamed to admit the previous owner was her brother; she doesn’t want to tell Morag about Frank. ‘The bird’s words terrified the twins.’
Spears of rain fizzle in the hearth.
‘When they’d calmed down, I managed to ascertain that Tobias told them a story about a monster that skinned and ate people. Hearing the parrot reminded them of the tale and scared them witless.’
The croft flashes blue with lightning.
‘Does the story mean anything to you?’
Morag perches on the low stool by the fireside, the sharpness of her features exaggerated by the gleam and shadows of the leaping flames.
‘I’ve heard similar stories told in the Nor’ West. The Cree tell a tale about a monster that stalks their villages at night and takes folk back to its lair, skins them alive and devours them limb by limb.’
Vapour puffs from the kettle’s spout. Morag covers her hand with a rag, lifts the kettle from its hook, pours the water into a teapot.
‘But why would Tobias be telling them a story from the Cree when he was married to an Inuit woman?’
‘You forget, he started off at York Factory which is in Cree territory. He had a country wife there. He would have heard her stories. But as I said, there are many such tales in the Nor’ West.’ Morag passes a mug to Birdie. ‘Nettle tea. Clears the lungs.’
She feels deflated by Morag’s explanation.
‘The twins were scared witless. I can’t help thinking it was more than a fireside tale that frightened them.’
Morag scowls. ‘You misunderstand me. These are stories folk tell about the things they fear most.’
Birdie sips the nettle tea.
‘Starvation stalks the people of the Nor’ West. In a bad winter, hunger drives people insane. People fear that madness will force them to extremes of behaviour, make them eat their neighbour, or even one of their own family.’
Rain batters the flagstone roof. The raven’s disgruntled caw echoes down the chimney.
‘People face that fear by giving it a monster’s form and telling tales about it. The Cree give the monster a name – they call it Wendigo.’
A gust of wind catches the hearth’s flames and makes the red tongues leap. ‘Then, it cannot be a Cree tale that Tobias told them, because Grace said the monster was called Kabloona.’
‘Kabloona?’ Morag sounds surprised.
The croft blazes cobalt, then plunges into darkness again.
‘You know that name?’
‘Kabloona? Aye.’ Morag pokes the peat with the tip of her boot. Smoke and flying embers fill the room. ‘It’s not a name. It’s a word some Inuit use for a white person.’
A bolt of lightning strikes the ground beyond the croft; the crack reverberates around the walls. Birdie leaps to her feet, paces to and fro across the floor.
‘Well, that makes sense of the story. It’s what I thought; it confirms what I saw when I picked up the sledge with the toggle from the Terror. Tobias told the twins a story about Franklin’s starving crew.’
Morag shakes her head. ‘Sit down, will ye?’
Birdie ignores her, stands in front of the hearth, waving her hands emphatically. ‘Tobias told the twins a story about the white cannibals. When Franklin’s crew were caught in the ice floes, they starved and resorted to cannibalism.’
‘Aye. That is what the Inuit told Dr Rae. I read his report.’ Morag rocks on her stool and gazes at the flames. ‘Though I’m still not…’
Birdie refuses to be deterred by Morag’s doubts; she wants to spell out her version of events.
‘Dr Rae reported that Franklin’s crew had starved and resorted to cannibalism, but he wasn’t believed because he relied on the testimony of the Esquimaux. If a white man could say he’d seen the bodies with his own eyes, and could produce some evidence to show he’d been there, then the Admiralty would have to believe him. Tobias must have left Labrador and journeyed north. He saw the cannibalized bodies of Franklin’s crew, then set off for London with his evidence. But if there were another man who was also after the reward…’
‘There are still a lot of ifs in your account.’
‘It all adds up. It was reported that the killer was an Esquimaux. Perhaps he also had evidence to give, but knew that Tobias was more likely to be believed than him.’
Morag stands, as agitated as Birdie now, and jabs her finger as she speaks. ‘I can see that the Admiralty would be more likely to believe a white man than an Inuit, but you say an Esquimaux killed Tobias? Now that part of your story doesn’t ring true to me. I read about the supposed Esquimaux killer in the Times report Peter Gibson showed me. I assumed this was another made-up tale about savages that English people like to tell.’
Morag spits at the fire, her saliva sparking green in the embers.
‘I didn’t mean to suggest that the Esquimaux are savage and murder people.’
‘A less savage race of people would be harder to find.’
‘There could be bad individuals among the good,’ Birdie persists. ‘Orkneymen are a gentle race of people, and yet these islands also produce a few who are malicious, and spread false rumours, as you yourself have said.’
‘May I remind you, it was also reported in The Times that you were the accomplice of the Esquimaux, and you tell me that’s not true. It seems quite likely that if one part of the story is concocted, then so is the other.’ She glares at Birdie. ‘Kabloona also means a person who jumps to conclusions.’
Birdie looks away, angered and upset by Morag’s judgement. She stares out the window; Venus glimmers below the bank of clearing cloud and Birdie thinks of the tortured woman’s face she saw there earlier.
‘I have to come to quick conclusions. I don’t want to hang.’
‘Well, flailing around is hardly going to stop the noose from tightening, Branna.’
Morag crosses to the door and opens it wide. Lightning forks and dances over the Pentland Firth; the storm is slipping away to the south. She steps outside and leaves Birdie alone, fuming.
*
Birdie glares around the croft and a glint catches her eye; Morag’s fiddle rests against the wall. There is something peculiar about the instrument but she can’t think what. She walks over to investigate and takes the fiddle by its neck. Close up, its oddness is obvious; it’s made of dull metal, not wood.
‘Do you play?’
