The Stone of Secrets Page 3

  In medieval times, the city had seen expansive growth. This brought both prosperity and challenges. Edinburgh was built upon a number of lower hills besides Castle Rock, and in some of the low places between these hills slums began to form. An ambitious urban renewal project was built in the eighteenth century involving a massive bridge to span Cowgate Ravine and connect the Old Town with the newer section of the city. The structure comprised nineteen large stone arches to support it, and only one of these was left open to allow passage on the street below. The rest became compartments meant to be used by the businesses that occupied the buildings that sprang up on either side of the bridge. The vaults provided storage and manufacturing space to the taverns, cobblers, cutlers, smelters, victuallers and milliners that lined the new commercial district. But this did not last long. The hastily built stone structure had not been sealed, and in only a few years the compartments began to fill with water. One by one the vaults were abandoned, and in the resulting vacancy they soon became places of ill repute. While the bustle continued on the street above, the section below became a notorious red light district. All manner of vice infected the vaults, until finally the city fathers had had enough. The compartments were filled in with rubble and sealed off. For over a century the Edinburgh Vaults were forgotten, until someone in the 1980s crawled into a hole in a brick wall and was suddenly transported back in time. The man emptied the rubble by hand, stone by stone, clearing out what would become one of Edinburgh’s most alluring tourist attractions. The project uncovered middens containing evidence of human habitation. Some evidence was found of the trades that originally occupied the rooms. Today, tours are conducted through the south section, where tales are told of ghost sightings and paranormal activities that still occur inside the vaults. The cabby related all this to Skye as she sat staring out the window of the car in wonder.

  “You see lass,” the cabby concluded, “many murders were committed in those vaults. They’re evil places, those horrid dark chambers of despair!” He paused to let that sink in. Then he raised his brow and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go look!”

  Skye exited the cab to follow the man. “Wait,” she said, “you can get in there?”

  “Well you see lass,” the cabby explained with a sense of self-importance, “the city fathers have entrusted me with a key to the vaults due to my valiance in the line of duty…”

  “Ok,” Skye replied looking past the story, “you’re a cab driver and a ghost tour guide?” She sensed this cabby never let the truth interfere with a good story.

  “Aye lass,” he replied, “but only during the Halloween season. That’s when the paranormal activity is at its peak…”

  Skye and the cabby came to a large iron door that looked centuries old. The man unlocked it, pushed it open and entered the chamber. Skye lost him in the blackness until he was able to light the wick of an old lantern hanging on the wall.

  “I’m not going in there with you,” Skye proclaimed.

  “Auch! I’m no’ armed!” he replied. But Skye stood outside, arms folded. “It’s fine lass. I’m a perfect gentleman!” He urged her to join him inside the vaults, but he soon realized he was overstepping a bit. “Fine,” he said. “Tell ya what. I’ll give you the key. See? It works from the inside like so. You go inside, lock the spooky cab driver out, and you can have the run o’ the place. I think you’ll find it’s worth a look.”

  Skye took the key. “I don’t know what’s creepier, you or the vaults,” she commented as she passed him.

  “Aye, ya may have a point there lass. Many would na’ argue wi’ ya,” the cabby replied.

  Skye entered the vault and locked the man out. “It wouldn’t have mattered,” she told him through the slot in the door. “I am an expert in tae kwon do. I could kill you with one finger.” She smiled at the fabrication she had thought up.

  Skye went from room to room carrying the old lantern. The cabby was right. The vaults were amazing. She could only imagine what had happened in those dark spaces all those years ago. She could see why the ghost tours were so popular. She thought the only thing that would make it spookier would be a human skeleton. Just then, she rounded a wall and saw just that. She burst out laughing. It was an obvious prop for the tour.

  “Saw your friend in there,” Skye told the cabby when she returned. “It looks like he’s been in there a while.”

  “Aye that’s George!” he replied. “That’s what happens to customers who don’t pay.”

  Skye tipped the cabby generously when he dropped her at the hotel later that night, not wanting to end up like George. She suspected the man put his job in jeopardy by letting her into the vaults. It was nice of him to show her around. It was exactly what she needed that night.

  She lay in bed thinking of how archaeology can unlock the secrets of the past like nothing else. And somehow she knew Scotland held the key to unlocking her past. She couldn’t explain it, but for several years now she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her ancestors. They were always in the back of her mind, almost like they were speaking to her from the grave. She knew there were stories to tell - important ones. Somehow she knew this country held answers she would find nowhere else in the world.

  Chapter Three

  Village of Marnoch

  Scottish Highlands

  Skye walked among the gravestones at the hilltop cemetery until she started recognizing names. It didn’t take long. It seemed like she was related to half the people here. She found the headstone of Anna Bair McAlister and knelt beside it. Placing the flowers at the grave made her the official heir to over $350,000 in silver bullion. But that didn’t seem important as she thought about her grandmother. To Gran, the silver was a pawn in the game, a means to an end. There was a reason Gran had required her to come here, and it had nothing to do with silver. Could it have had something to do with Skye’s unexplainable pull to her ancestors? How could Gran have known about that? The answers to these questions were not going to present themselves in a cemetery. None of these people were talking.

  Or were they? When Skye stood to leave, she noticed the cemetery had an amazing view of the surrounding countryside. She walked to the top of the hill, where a small portico had been built at the very crest. Standing in the middle of the circle of columns, she noticed they lined up with various features on the horizon. The builder had no doubt intended this. It was built in a time when buildings were more than shelter. She sighted through one pair of columns and they framed a distant castle in the valley. Another opening lined up with an unusual rock formation on a faraway ridge. Still another pointed to an ancient cairn to the northeast. She went around each column, picking out features in the surrounding landscape. She realized this sleepy highland strath must have been a lively place in ancient history. Most of the features pointed out were man made, and they had been there for centuries.

  Then she looked up. Above each gap in the columns words were carved into the stone. They were the names of the features of the landscape viewed through each respective gap. The valley castle was called “Glencairn,” the unusual rock formation on the ridge was labeled “summer solstice,” and so it went.

  One of the labels caught her attention, “Pictish Township.” Skye recognized the term to be anomalous. Picts hadn’t been around since the 10th century, long before there were townships in the Scottish Highlands. There was no such thing, literally, as a Pictish township.

  But someone had thought there was. She looked at the distant hillside framed by the columns beneath the label. There was nothing to be seen from that distance. It just looked like a forested hillside. She pulled out her phone, but there was no service. Satellite imagery would have been nice. What was hiding in those trees?

  She decided to find out. She got in her car and drove, but the roads didn’t cooperate. She soon found herself lost. The old farmer, who had lived in the valley all his life, had never heard of a Pictish township. Skye came to a village with a small tavern. The innkeeper, who was even
older than the farmer, had.

  “Aye, ye mean th’ old abbey.”

  “…abbey?”

  “Used ta be a settlement o’ monks up the glen to the south. Now yer goin’ back years. There must be hardly nothin’ left o’ th’ place by now…”

  “How do I get there?”

  “What business do ye have at the abbey, might I ask?”

  “Curiosity mostly. Why?”

  “Ye might want ta reconsider goin’ up there…”

  “Why is that?”

  “Folks around here avoid the place. Filled with spirits it is.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. Nothin’ but evil on that horrid hill. I haven’t been there but once, and I never intend to go back.”

  “Why not? What happened?”

  “Voices happened.”

  “Voices…”

  “Aye, voices.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “None can tell. Strange chants, they were. Not in our tongue.”

  “Really…”

  “Work o’ the devil it was, no doubt.”

  “I thought they were monks…”

  “Lass, the monks haven’t been there since long before my time. And legend has it they were no ordinary monks. Strange sort these were, their bodies all painted.”

  “…painted.”

  “Aye, an’ their rites were like nothin’ in Christendom. Spawn o’ th’ devil they were!”

  “Any idea how long ago this was?”

  “Ancient times. Long before my grandfather and his father before him.”

  “I’d like to have a look at this place. I’m an archaeologist. If you’re right about the site being untouched in recent times, there may still be clues to help us understand life in the ancient world. Could you tell me how I might find it?”

  At length Skye was able to get directions out of the old innkeeper. She found the old road that wound up the glen to the ancient site. She had to do some hiking, but when she found it it was an archaeologist’s gold mine. The innkeeper had been right. No one had walked on this ground for a very long time. But was it a ‘Pictish Township’ as the cemetery portico claimed?

  No one knows exactly where the Picts came from, but they were already in place when the Romans started keeping records of their doings in the British Isles. The Romans called the people north of the Tay and Forth Rivers, the Caledonii. It is a source of Scottish pride even today that the Romans never conquered Scotland. When the barbarians of the north proved too unruly for the Roman legions, they built a wall to keep them out.

  Pictish is a lost language. There is a dearth of written records, and what exists is found in pictographs carved on stones throughout Pictland. Formerly thought of as mere rock art, these symbols have recently been found to represent a complex spoken language. Though studies have identified key patterns in the ordering of the symbols that led researchers to this conclusion, the language has yet to be deciphered. It is said that only the discovery of a Pictish equivalent of the Rosetta Stone could resurrect the language.

  Who were these painted monks the innkeeper had spoken of? The ancient Picts were said to have tattooed their bodies, but their culture had been lost and their people assimilated by the Gaels centuries before this site had been built. Had Gran known about the ruin? Skye couldn’t help but think it was the real reason for her visit to Scotland. She believed in coincidence, but it was more often the exception than the rule. There was a gap in the story of this site. And gaps were Skye’s job.

  The following months Skye busily arranged a dig at the Marnoch ruins. Somehow she knew this place had something monumental to tell the world. Perhaps she would find something that could lead her to deciphering the language of the Picts. Whatever it was, she was driven to get things rolling that spring. In the Scottish Highlands, summer is when archaeology happens.

  Though she and her team made it to the dig site early enough to take advantage of the season, it was not without hardship. The Scotland Historical Society was the first difficulty. The Society decreed that the ruin should remain completely unmolested. Its mission is to preserve the relics of antiquity for future generations. Certainly the slow crumbling of castles across the land is an epic tragedy. Once something old is gone, it is gone forever. If you rebuild it, it’s not old anymore. And if Scotland has no antiquities for tourists to bring their money to see, what would become of tourism in Scotland? From the outset the Society viewed Skye and her shovels as a national threat.

  For days on end Skye was engaged in a tug of war with the pompous and stubborn government agency. It was not how she envisioned spending her time. She wouldn’t have even bothered with them had they not actually prevented Skye and her team from entering the site. A locked steel gate blocked the way up the access road the day they were to start work.

  Skye did not share their point of view. Archaeology could be the solution for Scotland, not the problem. She was the preeminent professional in her field. Her work had been acclaimed worldwide, her field techniques were beyond reproach. What’s more, she had jumped through all the hoops to get this done. As with all her work, she had been meticulous in preparing everything. As such, she had full legal right to conduct the dig. Surely that must count for something in this country.

  Telling this to the representative of the Society only earned her a glare.

  “We do not want you or your team here,” the short Scot behind the wooden counter told her blankly. “You archeologists never leave things the way you found them.” He was irritated. Skye thought it was no wonder; he’d been a bureaucrat for so long. It was their natural state. She was tempted to explain to him that she had Scottish blood, but she doubted that would make a difference to the stuffy codger. This situation called for tact. She was going to have to muster all the diplomacy she could. She began to explain how useful their findings would be to the Scottish community and to the world. Perhaps a groundbreaking discovery would put Scotland in the spotlight. Tourism would certainly multiply. “The stones that were found here recently are priceless,” she explained. “There are encrypted Pictish words on them and the key to unlocking the language could be buried in this ruin, waiting to be found.”

  But the man gave no sign of relenting.

  When the week ended, Skye was thoroughly frustrated. She decided to involve the local authorities. She had legal right and the documents to back it up. Maybe there was someone willing to listen to her case. The officer behind the desk at the police station took down her information, but he gave no hope except that he would look into it. “Worth a try,” Skye said under her breath as she left the station Friday afternoon. She sighed and started thinking attorneys.

  But as the new week began, the lock was gone and the team found the gate wide open when they drove to the site. It was eerily astonishing. “I should have gone to the police sooner,” Skye said as they drove through the open entrance.

  “Oh, well. I’m sure going to miss our friends down at the Society,” Mert Hampton quipped. If sarcasm was an art, Mert would be Picasso. “Fine people they are. Yep. Sure will miss ‘em.”

  Everyone on the team was already used to Mert’s wit, and they shared his feelings about the Society. There was no shortage of groaning about the Society. It was no way to get anything done. Skye was an academic, but she also knew something about personnel management. Morale on her team was important to her, and not just so she could get things done. She liked her team. There was a certain chemistry between them. Sometimes she even noticed them finishing each other’s sentences. She was glad things seemed better as Monday began. It brought back that chemistry. Taking their case to the Scottish police was the best thing she could have done.

  But somehow Skye knew she had not seen the last of the Society.

  The team found pieces of pottery and burnishing stones the first week of the dig. Everyone on the team was pleased, but Skye had a feeling it was just the beginning. Carbon dating and stratigraphy placed the site in the fourth century AD. This was no
t many years after the Picts were first mentioned in history by the Roman chronicler Eumenius in 297. She was optimistic.

  “Skye, you need to see this.” Mert called excitedly, jolting Skye from her focus on the section she was working.

  Mert was a PhD student of archaeology at Steinbridge University. Skye had enrolled him on the team because of his exceptional academic performance. Plus, he was a riot in class. He always delivered the perfect asinine comment at just the right time. But he also had many recommendation letters to bolster his résumé. Though the list of applicants had filled up as soon as the expedition to Scotland was announced, Skye chose Mert first.

  Skye walked over to Mert. What she saw made her smile. Within the earth where Mert had been carefully clearing the soil was a stone about fourteen inches across. It was roughly triangular in shape, with one corner forming a right angle. It seemed to be a corner broken from a much larger stone. One by one members of the team moved closer. Skye stared at the stone as she descended into the pit next to Mert.

  “Do you see what I see?” Mert asked excitedly.

  The carved writing on the stone was Latin!

  Historians believe the Pictish elite were converted to Christianity sometime around the fourth century. This is important to the study of their language, because Christian worship at the time required knowing Latin. The process of conversion for the Pict nobility must have included some education in Latin. By itself, a stone found with Latin writing was not a particularly valuable find. There is a lot of old Latin writing in the world. But find a fragment of a much larger stone with Latin on it, right in the middle of Pictland, and you may have something. If that stone is part of a translation record, and if you find the rest of it, you may have just deciphered a lost language. And that is the holy grail of archaeology. What Mert had just uncovered was truly remarkable.