This Emerald Veil, page 9
‘Within the abbey boundary?’
‘Further away than that. An old croft behind the village is being renovated to become a holiday home. All the modern houses have septic tanks, and the developer was installing one downhill of his property when he made the find.’
‘And was it deep?’
‘Like the Monks Bay Hoard, I’d say about four feet.’
Gill nodded but said nothing more.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Leone glancing at her watch. ‘Look, I’ve gotta a couple of things to do. Catch you in the Argyll Hotel later?’
‘That would be grand,’ he said maybe a little half-heartedly.
‘Cool,’ she replied. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
---
Gill wanted to like Leone, but after a long day in the car, their encounter had seemed cold; their conversation, rather businesslike. Even when she wasn’t talking, Gill hadn’t felt he could lower his guard. Perhaps it was just the tiredness from time spent on the road? Returning to his accommodation to change, he needed a little time alone. Behind the pods lay the highest point on the island. Just a few hundred metres in height, he decided to climb the hill and take in the broad scope of the island. Half an hour of vigorous walking was all it took and immediately, he felt the better for it. To the north, where he’d visited already with Leone, lay a string of white beaches, while to the south lay harder terrain, naked rock strewn with patches of dark heather. Across the middle hung the “urban” area. The abbey, the village, and a strip of grazing fields dotted with sheep and a few cows. He turned through the points of the compass, watching, listening, for any inward pulse that hinted at a mystery here. Through twenty long minutes, he heard nothing, until finally as he began his descent, he caught a faraway sound, happy and delighted, of a woman laughing. Aura was here he deduced. She just wasn’t ready to chat.
Chapter 13
The Argyll Hotel down near the ferry was the only bar on the island presently open to the public. It was early season and most of the tourist facilities wouldn’t fully open for another eight weeks. There was no cask ale on offer, but a small row of kegs promised refreshment, and after trying a couple, Gill was pleasantly surprised. He’d parted with Leone less than two hours ago, with his host insisting she would see him here later. Gill had texted to let her off the hook - she didn’t need to bother; that he’d make his own company. She’d immediately texted back and compared herself to her old 4x4. ‘This old girl doesn’t get out enough.’ And when she arrived, they began by discussing the damage they’d witnessed in the graveyard, the ground pockmarked with hastily dug pits, and stones pushed over to reveal the bare earth beneath.
‘It started in late January,’ said Leone, sipping the top of a pint of IPA. ‘A week after the second hoard was found.’
‘And that’s not even in the news yet,’ said Gill.
‘Aye, but the detectorists talk to each other. I’m dreading what it will be like once the days start to lengthen.’
‘Couldn’t you get security?’
She flinched. ‘On my budget? We struggle as it is. Besides, even if I had a team of guys, where would I put them? Iona’s history goes back three thousand years. And the Scots buried their kings here from Pictish times, so you’d literally have to cover the whole island.’
Gill thought about this. ‘Most burials took place in St Oran’s cemetery. Kenneth MacAlpin, Macbeth. You’ve got a who’s who of Scottish nobility right outside your front door.’
‘Gill, these are only the graves we know about. Rumours and legends abound of chieftains and kings buried away from the religious centre. Men who had either fallen out with the church or simply wanted a grave with a view over their old stamping ground. Their remains will have completely returned to dust in the intervening one thousand years. All that will be left of them will be their most durable grave goods.’
‘The gold buried with them?’
‘That wasn’t a huge tradition in Scottish culture, especially once Christianity became mainstream. But yes, the burying of valuable trinkets was more common the further back you go.’
‘Couldn’t you at least protect the key areas? A night patrol around the abbey grounds and the graveyard?’
‘That would help. But it would just push the wildcatters out into the margins. Wait ‘til I show you Columba’s Bay tomorrow. It’s as remote as you can get on Iona, and it's peppered with small holes.’
‘What can be done?’
Leone used her left hand to rub the back of her neck. ‘I met with the trustees last week. We came up with two options.’
‘Which are?’
‘Firstly, we petition the Scottish government to close the island to all tourist traffic. Cut the wildcatters off at source.’
Gill nodded. It was so obvious; he didn’t need to say it. The island relied on tourism. If visiting was suspended, the local population would revolt.
‘Secondly, we commission a university or trusted expert organisation to survey the whole island and declare that the two recent discoveries were isolated incidents. In effect, there is no more low-hanging fruit.’
Gill nodded, not convinced he was enjoying the direction this conversation was going.
‘And for what it’s worth,’ said Leone. ‘I prefer the second option. And I’d like Mys.Scot to do it.’
Gill almost choked on his beer. ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’
‘Think about it. These days, your digs always attract media attention. So, when you pitch up with a small team on Iona, and then poke about for a few days, all eyes will be on you. Well, amongst the wildcatters anyway. Then after a week, you announce you haven’t found anything and head home to Dundee. There. Easy-peasy.’
‘Just a few flaws in that,’ said Gill, trying to be polite to his new associate.
‘Hit me.’
‘Well, for a start, we’re not a charity. If I bring a team to Iona, my boss will expect a payback in terms of material we can print.’
She shrugged. ‘This is Iona. I can find stories for you.’
‘Secondly, expense. That wee cabin you’ve hired me is lovely, but it’s pricey. And that’s only the start of it.’
‘Parts of the abbey can be used as dormitories. We have our own canteen. Keep talking, Gill. I haven’t heard anything we can’t handle.’
‘Thirdly, will it be enough to convince the wildcatters? They might be greedy, but they’re not fools.’
Yes, but if even the great Gill McArdle doesn’t find anything on a dig, how should they expect to do any better?’
‘Well, that’s the final thing. This is Mys.Scot we’re talking about. What if we did find stuff?
‘Hmm.’ Leone suddenly looked chastened. ‘I’m kinda hoping you don’t.’
---
Before they finished the previous evening, Gill had persuaded Leone that he would start his day with an early solo jog down to Columba’s Bay. That way he’d maintain his exercise routine and save Leone a long walk to the southern tip of the island. Afterwards, he could meet her at the abbey towards the middle of her working day.
By all accounts, the path was rugged and slow, so it was still dark when he set out the following morning. Setting off under persistent light rain, Gill followed a narrow road across the width of the island until he reached a golf course. The lush green space did at least contain golfing paraphernalia, but it also had a great many sheep and their attendant droppings. He presumed it was Iona’s unique expression of a good walk spoiled.
Following a well-worn track across the turf, he arrived at a long beach of coarse white sand. He paused for a few minutes, stooping to enjoy a scattering of cowrie shells, mixed with small stones the colours of spring greens and autumn reds. Overhead, he heard the rich chirp of a chough. This small, crow-like bird with its distinct red beak had once been common across Scotland, though it was rare now. He’d only seen them once before on Islay and he paused to watch it battle with a far larger bird for some scrap off the beach. He took a little pleasure watching it triumph, then turned around and leaned back into his run.
It was uphill for a time on a good path, then across a damp section along the bank of a small loch. Passing this, he splashed across heathland for a few minutes and then it was downhill all the way to the south end and into the stony expanse of Columba’s Bay.
The landmark lay between two high headlands of green schist, weathered to black as they faced off against an approaching armada of dark islets. This abundance of exposed rock was no doubt the source of the infinite mass of ocean-tumbled stones. The beach was heaped with them, each the size of a man’s fist. These lay meshed with seaweed at the water's edge, then became bigger the further back from the sea you looked. Only on the highest reaches did sand show amongst the stones. There wasn’t machair as such in this spot, simply an acre of smooth, emerald grasses, tolerant of the salt that even now, washed ashore in the blown mist.
Reputed to be Columba’s landing place when he first reached Scotland from Ireland in A.D. 563, Gill immediately sensed he was in a ‘thin place’. This was a surprise as nothing he’d seen so far had spoken to his spirit. This island of Iona, internationally famous as being the beachhead of Scottish Christianity, felt to his untested spirit to be a rather dead-eyed rendering of a long-gone religion. But not in this bay. The legend said Columba and the people who came after him had resisted demons to come and inhabit this land and Gill recognised this beach as a contested space.
Not that a human presence wasn’t evident around the verdant hollow. Redundant fishing tackle blighted parts of the beach, and around the grassy hinterland, holes had been dug and abandoned, as if two tribes had fought a short, intense artillery battle.
Gill resolved not to waste time on this one. He was going straight to Aura. Straight to the voice who might hint if he should linger, or quickly move on. He took a few minutes, just marvelling at the beauty of the place and thanking the Creator for the forces of nature unleashed to shape it into the jewel that he could see before his eyes. And then he asked. ‘Is there anything I should be doing here? Should I stay or should I go?’
He expected to have to wait for a response, if one came at all. Humble himself by asking several times. But straightaway, he heard a laugh behind him; distant. Perhaps from just beyond the rim of this place. A woman’s laugh; amused and delighted. He spun slowly through 360 degrees trying to catch the source and felt a slim hand, brushing across his shoulders. And even though he spun around, he couldn’t quite see the speaker. Her voice when it came was quiet and clear. ‘Follow the gold.’
Chapter 14
Two hours later, after breakfast and a shower, he joined Leone at the abbey, tracking her down in a small stone office at the back of the refectory. He’d decided not to linger in Columba’s Bay. His instinct – Aura’s voice – hinted there was nothing there. And the persistence of the wildcatters suggested they’d not hit a mother lode. But it had been context, and that was useful.
The rain had eased a little and was due to stop soon, so Leone took him on a tour of the abbey. A slow walk around the cloisters revealed where all the best grave coverings from St Oran’s were now displayed safely away from the elements. The main abbey hall was busy with a service so sidestepping that, they dipped into the Chapter House. This was an intimate meeting room designed by the Benedictine monks, and still in use by the Iona Community today. Gill and Leone sat in the ancient alcoves the monks had used and chatted for a few moments about their careers and how they’d arrived in their current posts. Finally, they went back outside and walked across open ground to reach the small museum.
‘Do you believe?’ asked Gill as he ambled towards the door.
‘Believe what?’
‘Well, here you are curating one of the oldest sites in Christendom. A place of saints and pilgrimages. Do you believe in the God who was worshipped here?’
Leone thought about it for a second. ‘My mum was first generation Jamaican. She was a believer. Dad too, in his own way; Church of England. It doesn’t offend me, but I guess it’s passed me by.’
Gill shrugged. ‘I think that’s true of most people.’
‘What about you? You don’t strike me as a bells and smells kind of guy.’
Gill laughed. ‘I don’t do church. But somewhere along the way, faith kinda hunted me down.’
‘I guess there are still people who need to believe in something.’
‘Yes, it turns out that I do,’ said Gill, feeling a little rebuked. He felt a prickling across his back where his sword briefly manifested. He gave her a sideways glance, but she showed no sign of seeing anything out of the ordinary.
‘This place was a ruin for five hundred years, give or take,’ Leone continued. ‘Maybe it’s a metaphor for all the world’s great religions?’
‘Once great institutions which gradually lost their way. First, they were fought over, then they were abandoned.’ offered Gill.
‘Something like that.’
‘And in the case of Iona; resurrected centuries later.’
‘And now it’s part pilgrimage, part theme park,’ Leone said, arriving at a solid wooden door. ‘This museum is the place where I get my kicks.’
Gill spent an interesting hour walking around the small exhibition space with Leone while she talked through the origin of each and every artefact. The lighting was excellent, subdued, even gloomy, but with sophisticated illumination being triggered when anyone approached each of the cabinets. Three immensely tall stone crosses dominated the centre of the room. Survivors from the dozens that once adorned the abbey’s grounds. And around the walls, the finest examples of the grave covers were carefully presented.
‘Does any of this date from Columba’s time?’
‘Most of the physical artefacts are from that era, but the delicate items were either acquired or donated after the abbey was refurbished in the 1930s.’
‘Iona was a scriptorium I recall,’ said Gill. ‘Book of Kells, and all that?’
‘Now on display in Dublin,’ she said, before digging an elbow gently in his ribs. ‘Imagine the Irish government still hoarding a priceless manuscript, looted in the distant past from British soil? You’d think Dublin would have the decency to give it back?’
Gill saw the bait for a political debate and decided to pass. ‘In its absence, what would you say is your most important artefact?’
‘Oh, gosh. Probably the fragments we hold of St John’s cross. That’s the biggest of the three and dates from the A.D. 800’s. And the finest of the grave coverings. The artefact with the highest entertainment value is the Treaty of Finlaggan. Do you know it?’
‘A friend once mentioned it in passing,’ said Gill, thinking of Cormac McKellar and his notebook full of neatly written research about waterhorses.
‘Come on. I’ll show you,’ she said, pointing to the far wall where a document inscribed on calf hide hung behind a glass screen, which in turn was enclosed in an atmosphere-controlled display case. It was an unimpressive sight; the muted colours and faded text ending in a row of leather tassels, each marked by the seals of the forty or so signatories to the document. He read a brief explanation of the treaty’s significance, and how it brought to an end the wars between the Scottish Crown and the rebel kingdom in the Western Isles, relegating the title, ‘Lord of the Isles’ in perpetuity to the king’s heir. A brief scan of the notes revealed no translation.
‘There are only three copies in existence,’ said Leone. ‘Ours, which is so poorly preserved you can barely read it. One in the National Museum, and one in the United States, in a private collection.’
‘Reminiscent of the Declaration of Arbroath,’ said Gill.
‘In appearance. This document itself isn’t as savvy as The Declaration, or as inspiring. It dates from 1493, when John, the last Lord of the Isles, in a final bid to maintain his independence, attempted to form a defensive treaty with England. When that failed, James the Fourth of Scotland forced him to the negotiating table. John ceded his territory to James, allowing the Western Isles to become the last big piece of territory to be confirmed as part of the Scottish state as it now stands.’
‘Sounds quite technical. Why does it make you smile?’
‘It is written in Latin and apparently, it mentions unicorns.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh, yes. Made it an utter laughingstock for five hundred and thirty years, with its reference to a mythical creature.’ She grasped his arm. ‘Little did they know that one day a Dundee-based journalist would prove the creature wasn’t mythical after all. I’m surprised it hasn’t had more attention since your Hebridean discoveries.’
‘Why does it mention unicorns?’
‘King James added a clause at the foot of the treaty describing the penalties that would result from any future attempt to break away from this new united Scotland he was creating. And in response, John added a clause of his own saying that the treaty would be null and void if certain peculiar conditions were fulfilled.’
