Magnus (1/2)

                                                                                                        

I

She watched her husband wrestle with the tides. She was wrestling, too. The tide was coming in, at the bay, and yet he embraced it, his arms wide in an attitude of prayer. She wished that he would embrace her like that, too. The Earl Magnus had asked for her, had sought her out. She had a reputation as the noblest, the most beautiful of the islands. So her sister had said. She folded her arms, and continued to watch him from outside their simple little house. She had known she was in for a contemplative life, but had hoped it might be a little more earthy, more in the now. Magnus was always communing with nature, and with heaven. He seemed to have little time for her. She was like a status symbol, an elaborate brooch, worn for special occasions.

     A wave swept over him, and she froze for a moment, hands to her mouth. Perhaps he would be washed away. No, there he was again, still with his hands outstretched, shaking his head like a dog, to get the water out. She smiled for a moment. He both embraced and repelled the water. That contradiction summed up her life with him. Behind her, a pot stirred on the fire, clamouring for her attention. She thought of the children who would never pull at her skirts. Theirs was a marriage, and yet perhaps not a marriage. He had his vows, his sense of abstinence. When there was any risk of their coming together, this was his solution: to seek a cooling in the sea, ever-present, all around them. He liked the silence, the rocks, the sea, the seals. The tides and the seasons had their preordained rhythms, their ebb and flow in seed-time and harvest, and she did not.

     She folded her arms again, and frowned for a moment. She continued to look out from the house, down to the bay. She kept telling herself she was privileged to have him. He was gentle, a man of God for sure, but was he entirely of this world? She knew that she was of this world. She looked up at the gulls, the cormorants, the shades of grey and black and white in their wings, ascending. She tried to unite with him from a distance, closed her eyes and prayed for strength, for them both.

     Perhaps God had a purpose in sending them here, to this life. Magnus believed so. She could have been married to a less kind man, had his children. Magnus himself seemed like a rainbow: one foot on this island, the other already in heaven. She watched him retreat from the advancing waves. He slipped and fell, and got up again, grasping at something. He turned around, saw her watching. He smiled and held up a fish. Behind her, the pot started to boil over.

***

Magnus showed a peace beyond understanding as he approached the simple church on the island of Egilsay. Behind him, to the south side, were his own two vessels, as agreed with his cousin Earl Hakon. To the north, ominous as storm clouds, loomed eight vessels, commanded by Hakon. Eight was not the number that had been agreed. Their sails billowed with greed and bloodlust, hungry for ownership of the islands and Magnus’ portion of them, flapping like birds of prey in the wind as they bore down on the island. Magnus was unafraid. On the journey to meet with Hakon, a breaker had come out of a calm sea and washed right over him: he saw it as a sign, perhaps of his death. He went to spend the night in the church, praying. He walked up to the simple stone building. His man Tor looked sceptically up at its modest ramparts, topped by a bell. He tested the door, which seemed strong, but would probably not withstand anyone so determined as to send eight ships. ‘Peace to you,’ said Magnus serenely, ‘peace to all of us.’ Tor looked at him doubtfully.

     ‘I do not think we can hold them, my lord earl.’ Magnus pushed open the door, and approached the altar. They advanced up the space, men to either side of him glancing out of the windows at the hostile ships still approaching. Magnus seemed to glide ahead of them, up to the altar, where he knelt to pray. They remained there for the night. The morning brought rain, and unwelcome visitors. Tor and others remained hunched up, asleep in awkward positions, against the walls of the church. There were no seats. Magnus alone remained awake, looking up at the cross above the altar, still praying. Tor uncurled and stretched, looking out of a window. The ships were much nearer, and a boat was landing even now, likely to continue the previous saga of much of its Viking ancestors.

     ‘Do not fear,’ said Magnus lightly, awaking the rest of his party. He got up slowly, rubbing his knees. He looked out of the window, and saw the approaching party. His lips tightened. He moved out of the church with grace and determination, slow and stately, a true ruler.  

     He stepped up to his cousin, the wind ruffling his hair. They had a shared heritage, yet they had clearly divergent paths. ‘I want no bloodshed,’ said Magnus calmly. ‘I would not have one man give his life for me. Do with me as you will,’ looking directly at Hakon.

     His cousin sneered. ‘Take him!’ His men marched up and held him fast. Magnus did not resist. He looked steadily at his rival. Hakon motioned to his standard bearer. The flag was a great fluttering banner, with the image of an eagle on it. The bearer’s name was Ofeig. He shook his head: he would not sully his hands. Hakon then pointed to his cook, Lifolf, his hands still dirty with that morning’s gutted fish. He wiped them.

     ‘Oh no,’ said Lifolf, rubbing at his eyes, and getting more dirty still.

     ‘Do not fear,’ said Magnus, discarding his sheepskin cloak, ‘he who tells you so is a greater sinner than you. I will pray for forgiveness.’ And he did so. ‘Now, strike me firmly on the head, do not let it fall like an apple, that is no death for the son of a chieftain,’ he said firmly. The cook still wept.

     ‘Stand here,’ said Magnus. ‘Ready. Now!’ Lifolf raised the axe, and let it fall. There was the sound of Magnus collapsing. Hakon smiled, and prepared to leave. The standard bearer still kept his standard high. The cook wiped the axe on the grass, and rubbed at his eyes, still in tears. Hakon’s party soon left.

     Tor and the others remained. ‘Time to bury him,’ he said in a state of shock and disbelief. They laid him down in a patch of earth as raw as their emotions, the new turned dark earth a long barrow. It was rocky and overgrown with moss. The church stood nearby, the bell casting a long shadow like a garment for the night. ‘Peace to you,’ he said, ’and may you bring others peace.’

     ‘Amen,’ the others said, and they prepared to leave Egilsay for the two ships. The two ships Magnus had agreed. A man of his word, in life and in death. Now one with the land and the sea and the sky.

II

Charles Morrison looked at the pillar in St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall. To him it was a joist, a beautifully carved artefact designed to hold the roof up. Yet something in it seemed awry. ‘Mr MacLean,’ he called. ‘Will you come here a minute, please?’

     Ernie MacLean had been examining the pulpit. ‘Yes, Mr Morrison?’ he said, turning about and tapping swiftly over, the sound of his cane echoing down the aisle. He had made it himself, asserting his independence even in his need. The sound of wood on stone. Morrison did his best not to notice it: he owed him that much.

     ‘I would like your opinion on this,’ said Morrison, pointing up at a pillar just out of his reach, where the stone seemed a little out of joint. MacLean tapped the pillar with his cane, and it gave a slightly hollow note.

     ‘It seems a little out of tune,’ he said drily. Morrison agreed.

     ‘Yes, perhaps a little off key. We cannot have that during the Sunday services now, can we?’ He smiled. Humour of this kind had kept them going throughout the Great War, the Armistice declared only a few months before.

     ‘Is there something inside?’ MacLean was always more direct, to the point.

     ‘I thought there might be. I will just get some steps.’ Morrison moved to the opposite aisle to retrieve his ladder, positioned it with a slight struggle, and ascended to view the pillar more closely. MacLean grasped the ladder at the bottom. Though crippled, he was still well-built. Morrison looked at the pillar. ‘It looks like… it was maybe… designed with this wee cubby-hole in mind… all the time, and no-one noticed, or it was forgotten, when the place was built, long ago. Now, it just seems to swing to one side… ah!’ He plunged his arm into the cavity, and felt cautiously. He pulled something out slowly, and used both hands to hold onto it. ‘Hold steady, down there.’ Morrison descended very carefully, tucking what he had found under his arm. He reached the foot of the ladder, and held it out.

     It was a large, elaborately carved wooden box. It had faded pictures on the sides. MacLean took it, and held it up to the light, his joiner’s eye admiring the workmanship. ‘It’s been well put together… a sign of respect for what was in it, maybe… I wonder what it was hiding in there for?’

     ‘Let’s see.’ Morrison held out his hand. MacLean looked at him.

     ‘Careful, now. It looks old, we should respect it.’ He scrutinised the box, and pressed down on the lid. Its long-perished lock gave way. They saw the skull and bones within.

     ‘As you say, Mr MacLean, it looks old.’ Morrison frowned. ‘Perhaps the bones of an old saint?’ The flag hanging over their heads displayed a skull and crossbones, with the logo Memento mori, like a morbid public house. The sun slanted in, a narrow golden finger pointing to the door of the great church. They looked at each other, both wondering.

     MacLean said slowly, ‘Do you think… it might be himself?’ Morrison still held out his hand. MacLean handed it over. ‘He was killed on Egilsay, buried there… they said the rough ground he was laid in became a fertile field. The first of the miracles.’ Morrison studied the box, its secret now exposed, his head to one side. The box came into the path of the sunbeam. The skull had a clearly marked hole to the front, with no comparable exit wound. Morrison made a dismissive noise.

     ‘Nobody believes those superstitions now. We are Reformed, we have no need of weeping statues or healings…’ He stopped uncomfortably. ‘I am sorry.’

     MacLean shrugged. ‘Don’t be. I moved on, with my honourable discharge. The Navy’s loss was the Mainland’s gain.’ Morrison smiled bleakly for a moment: part of MacLean’s work was in designing coffins. He looked into the box again. ‘He was put away with care, whoever he is… someone should tell the minister.’

     ‘I will,’ said MacLean. He was startled by a sudden sneeze, which took him by surprise. ‘Just as well I wasn’t holding him, then,’ he said, when he recovered.

     ‘Indeed,’ said Morrison, looking closely at the way the bones in the casket had been arranged. ‘He’s very tidy, as you say… all knit together, like a kind of masonry. All neat, in death, just as God designed him. Perhaps neater than in life.’

     ‘Perhaps we’ll all be neater in death,’ said MacLean. They did not, as a rule, speak of the War. There were so many young men in Orkney who would never return, those lost at sea without graves to visit. Morrison was in turn surprised by a hacking cough, and nearly dropped the box.

     ‘Put him down,’ said MacLean, and Morrison did so. He blew his nose, taking a minute to steady himself. The sunbeam now fell directly onto the box, the lid removed to show the damaged skull at the top. It gave it an unearthly look, as if the skull were polished in gold. ‘He does look a bit… special,’ said MacLean, leaning on his cane and squinting down at the box. Morrison made a sceptical noise.

     ‘Ach, it’s just a trick of the light,’ he said, consumed by another hollow-sounding cough. The echo was also tremendous. MacLean looked concerned.

     ‘Perhaps you should get home, Charles. There’s a lot of illness around, at the moment.’ It was the week after Easter, and the church flowers picked for that day were just starting to fade.

     ‘I will be all right, Ern. It’s just the time of year…’ Morrison started to cough again, and was bent double. He had difficulty regaining his balance. When he straightened up, there was blood trickling from his mouth. He dabbed at it with his handkerchief. MacLean had difficulty keeping his balance, letting his cane fall to the ground. Morrison bent and picked it up for him. He could not contain another bout of coughing. He handed over the cane. ‘Here, let me help you.’ MacLean shook his head.

     ‘I’ll manage.’                                               

     ‘Oh, havers. We survived Jutland, we can help each other now…’ MacLean moved slowly towards the church door, supported by Morrison, both now incapacitated by sneezes and coughs. Behind them, the sun remained strongly on the box and the exposed skull, resting as quietly as when it had been concealed. The flag fluttered in the breeze as they opened the door, and the words Memento mori took on a life of their own.

III

Later that day, the young wives of the two men who found the box sat in a public garden, overlooking St Magnus Cathedral. It was bright for March, if still a little chilly. They met by appointment, in a kind of friendly rivalry. Neither would back out of the arrangement, even if it had been raining. Mrs Rosemary MacLean was preparing the ground, shaking out a tartan blanket for them to sit on. They were dressed defiantly against the weather in floral dresses, lacy gloves, in a manner not strictly required for at least another two months. Mrs Patricia Morrison put down her picnic basket, and set out some scones on china plates. Mrs MacLean held out a lacy-gloved hand, as if testing the weather. ‘Beautiful day, Mrs Morrison,’ she observed.

     ‘Yes, Mrs MacLean,’ observed the other. ‘It is like this every year.’ She broke off, with a hacking cough. The other woman stared, more as if at a moral outrage than in concern.

     ‘That’s a nasty cough you have there,’ she said pointedly.

     ‘Well, I left my nice cough back at the house,’ snapped Mrs Morrison. Mrs MacLean remained calm, unpacking the hamper she had brought.        

     ‘Perhaps you would like some tea? I have the best bone china.’

     ‘Yes, if it is not too dark,’ replied Mrs Morrison. ‘My husband was involved in repairing the medieval font for St Magnus Cathedral, you may have heard,’ she said, after a few moments. ‘The work is going well.’

     ‘Yes, I had heard. My husband has been busy with restoration work on the pews. That is skilled work, you realise. Milk?’

     ‘Yes, please, Mrs MacLean. Masonry supports the whole work of the cathedral. Without that, there would be no gallery, no pillars, no means of-‘ She broke off again, with her hacking cough.

     Mrs MacLean arched an eyebrow, and reached over to pour a cup. ‘I think you need that tea more than I do, Mrs Morrison. Here,’ passing it to her.

     ‘I need sugar,’ said the other woman, applying three spoons and stirring vigorously. ‘As I was saying, my husband has the most valuable work-‘

     ‘My husband’s family built the pews,’ Mrs MacLean interrupted. ‘They are very old in these islands.’