The Island House (24 page)

On impulse Freya picked an armful of meadow flowers and scattered them around the lip of the excavation. And though she
could not replace the covering of pebbles, at least she could mark where the small skeleton lay and cover it with the PVC tent until she returned to gather the bones.

Standing back to contemplate her work, Freya pulled the thermos out of the barrow and poured a cup of tea. A surprise is always a good beginning, and that was the lure, of course, the anticipation, the hope, that other finds lay waiting for her.

She threw the dregs of the tea onto the grass. Time for the real task of the day—just what
was
the best way to approach the site within the ring of standing stones?

Since the afternoon was fine now, Freya enjoyed the stroll toward the outer circle of stones across the rising ground. In their shadows she put the wheelbarrow down and stared. Close up, the monoliths bulked larger than she’d imagined, and though they were severely weathered, the enigma of their presence was still powerful. “I’m one of the mayfly folk, aren’t I? You’ve seen us come and go for so many, many years—just little blurs in time.”

She didn’t have to count them. Michael’s notes had told her already that there were the remains of thirteen standing stones in the outer circle with an inner ring of eight uprights.

A significant depression at the very center of the two rings showed, Michael thought, that at least one large stone had been removed, and another lay half heeled over, leaning against its neighbor. There appeared to be no altar stone or central offering table.

“How old are you?” Freya stood in the center of the inner ring. Who knew? Who could ever tell? Some of these monuments, all over Europe and Russia and Ireland, were thousands and thousands and
thousands
of years old, and she was so privileged to be the temporary custodian of such a site. These stones must have taken much effort, and many, many people, to erect, so it was clear Findnar had been very important once, a sacred island.

Freya flung her arms wide. “Where did your builders come from? Can you tell me?”
Because you didn’t tell my dad . . .
Ah,
Findnar—talking to the stones seemed somehow normal, a definite worry.

But she was here to dig—the crucifix site, that was her real target.

Owl-light had settled on the meadow before Freya stopped. Weary, she clambered out of the third test trench and groaned. It was torture to stretch her back; still, it felt good to be a physical being again.

She’d enjoyed this afternoon. Time had disappeared because the excitement of discovery was always a profound drug—no good pretending she wasn’t addicted. But the first two trenches in the center of the circle had yielded only animal bones—a lamb, probably, and a rabbit. The finds had been properly bagged and noted for future study, but she’d filled the pits in again.

The third test trench, however, had become interesting. Freya had dug into the depression where something big had once lain. The earth had been rich and loamy and almost black, and she might have missed the pieces of pottery, except for that first flash of terra-cotta red in the soil. The shards she uncovered had incised lines—Samian ware perhaps? If it was, that meant long-distance trade routes, and if the pot wasn’t from Roman Britain, it might have come from ancient Gaul or even beyond.

Freya had enjoyed teasing the soil away from the shards—it was nice to feel she still had some skill at such delicate work. Gradually, too, she was able to see some hint of the shape of the find from the way the pieces lay together. It seemed to be a wide, shallow bowl, and after photographing and measuring what she had exposed, she coaxed each piece from the earth and bagged them individually—there might even be enough to attempt some kind of reconstruction. Could she have found an offering bowl? That seemed possible in a place of Pagan worship but, in itself, it didn’t
help to explain why a crucifix had been found at this same site, or the intriguing little lead box with its pages of Latin manuscript.

With almost no light in the sky, Freya unpacked the last PVC field tent and spread it out. Unfolded, it was big enough to cover the excavation, and she sent up the archaeologist’s prayer to the Gods of the Earth and Sky.
Please don’t let it rain tonight. Please!

Something white drifted past, silently disturbing the air beside her face. Freya jumped.

It was the owl—the one she’d seen on the night of her arrival. She watched it swoop high and then drop to the meadow; a moment later it was in the air again, a mouse in its talons. Freya heard the little thing squeak, but it was doomed, destined to become tomorrow’s owl cast. Was it a shock to be reminded that existence was pitiless?

And then the image she’d avoided thinking about for the whole day returned. Flames reflected in a man’s eyes—Daniel’s eyes; flames from an inferno that did not exist.

Soon it would be night, and she would be alone with her thoughts.

CHAPTER 17

T
HERE’S PLENTY
more, Dan. I made enough spuds for dinner and lunch tomorrow. Lots of meat too.”

“That’s fine, Dad.” Dan covered his plate as Walter tried to put yet more slices of pork into the lake of gravy. Walter couldn’t cook, not in the formal sense, but roasts were simple, and that’s what they had most nights. Unless Dan, desperate for a change, got pizza or cooked eggs.

“I thought you liked pork?” Walter was worried.

Dan put his fork down. “I do, Dad, just not very hungry tonight.” It was the smell. He’d smelled meat roasting this morning on the island—no, meat
burning
—and he’d been terrified, as if he, like the woman he’d seen, had been about to die.
What was that?

Walter cut into his food. He was pleased; for once he’d got the crackling right. “Weekend coming up. Any plans?”

Dan shook his head. “Pass the salt.”

Walter mumbled through his food. “You don’t need more salt.”

Dan bit back a sharp response. He said, patiently, “What, are you the food police now?”

“We all eat too much salt.”

Dan rolled his eyes.

Walter said, stubborn, “Don’t look at me like that. Got to take care of yourself, Dan. We want to make old bones, you and me.”

Dan said nothing. He picked up a forkful of meat, and chewed and swallowed—somehow.

“I’ve been wondering . . .” Walter cleared his throat; this was delicate territory. “Would it help to see someone?”

Dan ate faster; this was winding up to something. “What sort of someone? Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

“Very funny. What I meant was, would a doctor help?”

Dan lined the knife and fork up on the plate, covering some of the food. “I’ve seen all the doctors I want, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean a
doctor
-doctor, though now I think of it, you haven’t been doing the physio, have you?”

“No.” Dan was short.

“It won’t work unless you do it, they said that.”

Dan shot his father a dark look.

Walter’s hands went up. “Okay, okay. So . . . we should try someone else.”

Dan slapped his leg. “Useless. Don’t need anyone else telling me that all over again.”

Walter leaned over the table. “This is different, Dan. It’s about your head, not your leg.”

“My head.” Dan repeated the phrase. “You want me to see someone about my head.”

“I don’t think you’re coping. You’re punishing yourself for some reason, and there’s no need. There, said it.” Walter looked at his son—he was pleading.

Dan pushed back his chair. He got up with some effort and, limping to the sink, scraped the uneaten food into a bin.

Walter tried again. “Dan, I think you’re depressed. It’s not surprising . . .”

“Are you depressed, Dad?” Dan’s voice rose. He skewered his father with a look.

Walter swallowed. “Well, no, but . . .”

“He was your friend, Michael Dane, not mine. Why should
I
be depressed?” He started for the door of the kitchen.

“Dan.” Walter rose.

His son turned back.

“Look at yourself. You can’t live the rest of your life like a volcano
waiting to explode. You need to get better. You need to enjoy yourself again.”

Dan spoke over his dad. “I’m going to the pub; don’t wait up.” He pulled down a weather jacket from the hooks beside the back door.

Walter called after him, “Not every girl is like Alice, Dan. Not everyone walks when life gets a bit tough.”

Hand on the latch, Dan said, patiently, “I know, Dad.”

Walter hurried on—
in for a penny.
“She didn’t mean what she said. Women get themselves upset and say things. You’ve got to give yourself a chance; smile more, it’s a good habit. You know what they say, ‘Smile and the world smiles with you.’ ”

That
made Dan smile—a bit. His voice softened. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

“You will? You really will?”

Dan pulled the door open and nodded. “But I’m not going to a shrink. Nothing wrong with my head. There, I’ve thought about it.” The door closed. He was gone.

Nothing wrong with my head. Sturdy defiance. But there was, and Dan knew it. Not just the darkness of the last months and the anger—no, make that fury. After this morning, he had to face more than that.

He stopped in the quiet street. No sound but the sea, close by, but if he closed his eyes he could smell that inferno, and hear it. The screaming. The bell. Drifting smoke, blood all over the grass, these had been real things. And the man with the sword—a
sword
—he’d been real too. An image of Walter slicing the roast intruded—dizzy, Dan clutched at a lamppost. They’d think he was drunk, if anyone saw him.

But the village was deserted. Behind curtains, TVs flickered, and he heard the whoop and clamor of a studio audience. Normal
life was inside those rooms, people sitting together, tranquilized by images from far, far away. Was that what had happened at the island?

Dan wiped the sweat from his face. No. It wasn’t some kind of movie, or flashback to something he’d seen somewhere. He had been in another
time,
and not just as an observer. There was so much he did not understand. Most of it.

All of it.

To ward off the dark, Dan began to walk. If he warmed up a bit, maybe the pain in his hip and leg would lessen, and exercise did make a difference, that at least was true, but he so rarely bothered. It hurt too much at the beginning.

But there was the pub. Alcohol drowned the aches—or, at least, took them somewhere he didn’t have to be for a while, comfort and oblivion all in one. And at the Nun, he was away from Walter’s anxious eyes. He could talk there, too, even if he was less welcome than he’d once been.

Aggression—that’s what the publican said.
You’re upsetting everyone, Dan. You pick fights for no reason.
He’d not been aggressive before when he drank; he’d thought of himself as a happy drunk, good company.

Laughter burst from a cottage close by. Was he the cause? But the guffaws were recorded, not real.
Paranoid, too, are you?
Things were lurching out of control, he could feel it. Walter was right—
can’t go on like this.