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Overview
Winner of the Malice Domestice Award for Best First Traditional Mystery Novel
In Northern Scotland The Gripping Beast introduces readers to a land full of ancient history and modern day intrigue. Orkney Island was first inhabited by the Picts and then the Vikings and the residents now believe that witches live among them.
Margot Wadley uses the dramatic background to debut her heroine, Isabel Garth, a young American woman who has come to the island to illustrate her deceased father's notebooks. As soon as Isabel steps off the ferry she is accosted by a beautiful young woman who warns her to leave. Andrew, a young boy she met on the ferry, proudly announces that the woman, Thora, is a witch. Isabel doesn't know what to think and as she continues her vacation she starts to feel that maybe Thora was right--maybe she is in danger. She is puzzled by the behavior of two men who seem to be following her and by the rash of accidents that are plaguing her. Then, while out sketching one day, Isabel finds Thora's body--apparently murdered.
In a dramatic climax, a life is lost, a life is saved, and the treasure at the root of all the violence disappears forever.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429982016 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/15/2002 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 192 |
| File size: | 216 KB |
About the Author
Margot Wadley is the winner of the SMP/Malice Domestice Award for Best First Traditional Mystery Novel for 2000. She lives in Blacksburg, VA.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Peace! The charm's wound up.
— MACBETH, ACT I, SCENE iii
According to Andrew, there was a witch on board. He lifted wide, dark eyes to meet mine and said, "Thora. She's here, too, on the St. Ola. She's a witch."
His shyness returned and he dropped his gaze. He turned toward the sea again as if still delighting in the view, although the craggy cliffs had disappeared into the distant haze, and this pastoral shoreline could hardly have been less dramatic.
This witch was an old argument, it seemed. Before the boy turned away, I saw the thick veil of his lashes flicker, and saw him cast a challenging glance at his mother, Johanna. Whether she noticed the look or not, she protested only mildly.
"Oh, Andrew," said Johanna, "you know she's not."
"But she is," he said, rounding back to us once more, his shyness already replaced by his eagerness to defend himself. "I saw her."
"Aye, I know she's here," Johanna said patiently, "I saw her myself. She's not a witch, I mean."
"But she told me she was. And once, last summer, I saw —" He stopped without telling us what he'd seen. He turned to me with a shrug, conceding to a distinction he seemed to consider insignificant. "Oh, all right, then, she says she's a witch."
Johanna smiled, with a shrug of her own. "Sorry, Isabel. Andrew is right, though, I must admit. The lass does say she's a witch. But she never does anything witchlike. At least, if she does I've never seen any evidence of it. Nor has anyone, so far as I know." She pushed her fingers through her hair, putting on a thoughtful expression. "Though what a witch is supposed to do in this day and age ..." She trailed off, laughing.
Why couldn't Andrew have seen a ghost, instead? Scotland abounded in ghosts — romantic figures in floating dress, or wailing, clanking, clamorous ghosts. They were boasted of or grandly disregarded, or used to tempt tourists into renting haunted castles. Even the bed-and-breakfast where I had slept last night, that small, unassuming house in Inverness, claimed its own ghost, though to me it had remained silent and invisible.
But he'd said a witch, and I knew nothing of those. Except, of course, for Macbeth's witches. Everyone, even schoolboys, knew of those three. And Macbeth's witches had appeared to him not far from where we'd boarded the St. Ola, in the far north of Scotland, foretelling Macbeth's grisly future in sweet-sounding riddles, chanting, Double, double toil and trouble ... as they stirred into their pot the eye of newt and toe of frog.
I pictured my schoolchildren in their tattered costumes, dancing around a papier-mâché cauldron fueled by a flickering lightbulb fire. Without intending to say it aloud, I heard myself only slightly misquoting a greeting from the play, "How now, you secret, black and midnight hag."
There was silence for a moment. Then Andrew straightened and peered up at me, his solemn face splitting into a wide grin. "Oh no, not a Scottish witch," he said. "A Viking witch."
CHAPTER 2
When shall we three meet again?
— MACBETH, ACT I, SCENE i
I'd met Andrew and Johanna on the St. Ola nearly at the end of the crossing.
I could have flown to the Orkney Islands and saved an entire day. Instead of the dawn train from Inverness in a misty rain, then the bus from Thurso to Scrabster, and finally the St. Ola to Stromness, I could have boarded a plane in Glasgow as soon as I landed from New York and arrived in Kirkwall yesterday.
But I had come this way, deliberate and unhurried, because I thought my father would have wanted me to. Even now, in my freedom, I did his bidding. And because I sought him as the child he had once been, I wanted to move slowly from my world into that old world of his childhood. Besides, I intended to begin my drawings on the sea.
Almost as soon as the ferry got under way the rain ended, as though reluctant to waste itself on the teeming waters of the Pentland Firth, where the Atlantic stirs itself into the North Sea. Today the seas ran calm, and far ahead the sun streaked down from rents in gray skies.
Above the St. Ola, though, the clouds lowered and the sea wind blew cold, and most of the passengers huddled inside, in the lounge or the cafeteria. I stayed alone in the open air leaning against the rail, drawing.
I drew odd shapes and details of the ferry itself, then the seabirds swooping and skimming the waters before us.
As people began to wander onto the deck one or two at a time I drew them, too, rumpled and windblown, all shapes and sizes wrapped alike in waterproof jackets and hats, thick sweaters, and sturdy shoes for a summer's journey on the sea.
Eventually, though, their numbers overwhelmed me, and they came too close for me to sketch them unobserved. I jammed together with them at the rail, all of us watching for the same sight.
A dark broken line appeared on the horizon. The ferry seemed to be barely moving now, stealing closer at an imperceptible pace. The line widened into a knobby wedge. It slowly mounded into a sheer cliff, its red sides plunging straight down into the sea.
I pressed myself against the rail, as if to push us forward more quickly toward the stone column in front of the cliff, its outline slowly emerging from the shadowy background of the headland, becoming a monumental silhouette against the sky.
This was my totem, what my father had called the threshold to the Islands, and suddenly it towered above us, a sea-stack of layered stone sculpted by sea and wind and time into a rough, humanlike form.
Now that we were upon it we seemed to be moving too quickly, passing it by too fast. I began to sketch hurriedly, when I heard a voice behind me.
"The Old Man of Hoy!"
The high, light voice was filled with anguish and complaint. Turning, I saw a boy of about ten, his brows knitted into a dark frown. He held a camera, its brightly woven strap slung around his neck, but he could have photographed nothing but people, nothing but the crowd blocking him from the view.
I decided then I'd seen so many pictures of the Old Man, heard my father describe it so often, read of it so recently in his journal, I didn't need to draw it now. I shoved my sketchbook into my pocket and stepped back, giving the boy my own small space in the crowd. "Come up here, there's plenty of room."
His face brightened. He slid a shy, sidelong smile to me as he squeezed in and began to snap pictures.
"Thank you," said a woman, a not much taller version of the boy, the same round face and dark eyes, and short black hair whose waves blew in tangles around her head. "Andrew has seen this many times, but he's not had a camera before. He's been so looking forward to photographing it."
At that moment the clouds parted above us. The sun's rays lit the red stone of the cliffs with fire, cutting the fissures and black caves deep into its sides. We watched together in silence.
After a few minutes the woman spoke again. "You're an American, aren't you?" Her words rolled out with a soft burr. "Are you on holiday, then?"
"Yes," I said, only partly truthfully, since my holiday was primarily a pilgrimage. "My first visit to the Orkney Islands."
Because of her accent, I added, "And you're Scottish, but not from Orkney. I can tell."
"However did you know?"
"My father was born in Orkney. He left while still a boy so he lost much of his accent, but he could still conjure it up to tease me. I never understood a word he said."
She laughed. "I'm certain he thickened it a wee bit. You'll be used to it in no time, as we are — though we hear it often, every summer, and occasionally at Christmas. We live in Inverness, you see, but each year Andrew and I leave his father at home and spend the school holidays with my aunt and uncle."
She looked wistfully at her son. "I suppose one day he'll not want to travel with his mother, but for now he finds coming here quite wonderful. He likes best being on the farm, though there's much else for you. Ancient places and natural wonders, and beautiful scenery."
I nodded. "To my father there was nowhere like Orkney. He always planned to visit once again, but he didn't, not since almost forty years ago."
I stopped for a minute to allow the unexpected tightness in my throat to ease. "So I've come back in his place, back to Digerness."
Blinking away imminent tears, I stared out at the shore. The island of Hoy and its precipitous coast lay behind us. We passed a few small, bleak islands, and a lighthouse on a rocky point. New land appeared, the coast of Mainland, the largest of the Orkney Islands, with farms nestled among gentle hills and pastures running down to the sea.
"Back to Digerness?" Andrew, joining us, echoed my words. His camera, in this unspectacular landscape, was tucked into the front of his jacket. "That's where we're going, too."
"It seems we'll be neighbors, for a while at least," the woman said, and held out her hand. "I'm Johanna MacLeod, and this is my son, Andrew."
"I'm Isabel Garth."
I glanced around. "Isn't it odd that we should meet?" Most of the other passengers would be tourists, and among them a few historians and photographers. Several would be staying in Stromness, heading to fishing lodges on the lochs, or traveling on to the smaller islands. But most would be going to Kirkwall. "Odd, that of all of the people on board, we three should be going to Digerness?"
"But there's one more," Andrew had said then, dancing a little in his excitement. "One more of us going to Digerness. Thora."
It was then he had turned his eyes to mine, and told me, "Thora. She has the farm next to my Nana and Uncle John. She's here, too, on the St. Ola. She's a witch."
The St. Ola blew her whistle. We had reached Stromness, and suddenly the crowd became lively. Drivers bustled to go below, to get into their cars. The rest of us funneled down the stairs to our luggage and to the passenger doors.
"Uncle John's collecting us," Johanna said. "Perhaps you'd like to — ?"
I shook my head. "Thanks. But I'm told a bus will be waiting, and it will take me right to my hotel."
"You'll be coming to the Festival on Tuesday? A wee summer celebration by the village, just for fun. Except this year we're celebrating even more, because we're not going to have a nuclear-waste site after all." Johanna, holding tight to Andrew's hand, was being borne apart from me by the tide of passengers. "We'll see you there."
"But where?"
"Everywhere. All over town. Come to the craft co-op, we'll most likely be there, with Nan. Her quilts ..." They were drifting farther away. "Spindrift," Johanna called, over the crowd. "You'll find it. Ask anyone." She waved. "See you there."
Since today was Thursday, I didn't expect to meet them again for almost a week. But as I reached the end of the pier and rounded the corner toward my waiting bus, I saw them standing beside an aged dark green Volkswagen Beetle.
Johanna and Andrew were talking to a young woman who stood in the half-open driver's door, as though she'd frozen in mid-motion while climbing in or out. Tall and gangling, she looked barely out of her teens. Her coppery hair, tied into an unfashionable bun, fought a losing battle, less against the wind than her own springy, bristly curls. Like the rest of us she wore jeans and rain gear, but her hooded coat was orange, almost the color of her hair. She would have been easy to spot on the St. Ola. I hadn't seen her, but I was sure she'd been there. This had to be Thora, Andrew's witch.
Andrew confirmed it. Seeing me, he waved, and called me over.
Up close, Thora still looked young. Across her nose and cheeks lay a light scatter of freckles, like a dappled shadow across her face. Yet cool, blue eyes gave her a serene, faraway look. Although only slightly taller than I was, she seemed to look down haughtily at me.
But when she reached out her hand and our fingers touched, her complexion, already pale against her florid hair, paled further still. Her freckles stood out in dark relief as a startled expression crossed her face. I wondered if she was going to faint, but she simply sucked in her breath and let it out sharply, making a small sound.
"Oh!"
Without taking another breath, she again made a sound, quieter than the first.
"Go."
She said it so softly I wasn't sure the second word was not the same as the first. But she repeated it.
"Go," said Andrew's witch. "There is danger here for you. I can feel it. Go home."
I should have laughed, and Johanna and Andrew with me, but not one of us did. Not one of us spoke. Johanna, standing behind Andrew, wrapped her arms protectively around him.
I was dimly aware of people moving past us, of people getting into cars and driving away to homes and hotels. I could see mybus waiting at the end of the street, ready to leave, with or without me, as soon as its scheduled departure time arrived.
Still no one spoke. I couldn't move. Thora dove into her car and started it with a jarring grind. She shot off, maneuvering jerkily around small knots of people, past the Harbor Office and the Stromness Hotel, and disappeared into the winding granite streets of the town.
CHAPTER 3
... Let's after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome.
— MACBETH, ACT I, SCENE iv
"I don't believe in witches," I said, breaking the silence that hung over us. A gust of wind blew down the narrow stone canyon of the street, and I shivered.
Johanna gave me a questioning look, unwound her arms from around Andrew, and placed a hand on my arm. She'd noticed my shiver but, taking the wind for granted, misinterpreted its cause.
I hastened to reassure her. "I'm not upset. I wasn't frightened, only ..."
I tried to remember how I'd felt, tried to remember feeling anything except astonishment — not that this girl who claimed to be a witch should say what she had, but that she should have said it to me. With an apologetic glance at Andrew, I said again, "I don't believe in witches. I don't believe in portents, either. And I do not believe in Thora."
"Nor do we!" Johanna exclaimed. Still, she held tight to my arm and said, "But you can't take the bus, now, all by yourself. Don't argue, Isabel. Uncle John will be here momentarily. You'll come with us in his car."
And the bus, settling the issue on its own, closed its doors and pulled away.
Andrew, freed now from his mother's embrace, spoke for the first time. He alone had seemed unshaken by Thora's behavior. His composed expression suggested it had been no more than he'd expected. She was, after all, a witch. But he, too, touched my arm. "I'm sorry," he said gravely, as if he had been to blame.
Then John Rousay arrived, his tan station wagon threading its careful way down to the end of the street where we waited.
Andrew brightened, plainly glad to see him, but plainly eager, too, to be the one to tell of the afternoon's drama.
"Whoa, lad, let me look at you first." Uncle John's voice rose and fell in the local rhythm, bringing echoes of Scandinavia into its Scot's burr. He held Andrew at arm's length with a large, gentle hand. He took off his hat, a brown knitted tam with a bobble in its center, and held it over his chest while he regarded Andrew seriously. Then, looking at Johanna with pale blue eyes that peered from lined, weathered lids in a way that suggested he'd spent all of his days in wind and glare, he said, "Aye, he's grown a wee bit." He gathered them both into his arms, his face shining.
He listened to Andrew's story, his head cocked to one side, a frown gathering as he took it all in. Then he turned to me with a shake of his head. "We'll see she's spoken to. Nan will know what to say. No matter what, we canna have Thora going round upsetting people in this way." He folded both of my hands in his and said kindly, "Ach, the poor lass."
But I wasn't quite sure if he was referring to me or to Thora.
John drove out of the town in the same slow, careful way he had driven in. I saw him take his eyes from the road only once, to cast a worried glance at Andrew sitting quietly on the seat beside him. I guessed Andrew ought to be chattering away about his trip, about his new camera, or questioning John about the latest happenings at the farm.
Johanna tried to prompt him. "Andrew, tell Uncle John about the birds we saw this morning," but Andrew murmured only a brief response, a mere list. He was brooding, after all, about Thora.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Gripping Beast"
by .
Copyright © 2001 Margot Wadley.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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