The Bikko

by Gabrielle Barnby

On Stembister brae two combines sat duggard and moping in the corner of the field. Faces at the window of Langahund watched the rain hitting steady and coarse on the glass.

            A line of starlings faltered on a wire then suddenly toppled and fell into flight.

            ‘Oh, Granny. Show me how.’

            Adolpha turned from the window to her granddaughter.

            ‘Weesht lass. What dae you think I did?’

            ‘You made the birds aal fly. I ken it wis you.’

            Melisande entered the room, newly changed from her teaching clothes into comfortable black she beckoned the dark haired girl.

            ‘Don’t vex Granny. Come here and I’ll pleat your hair.’

            Leona’s face fell flat, her eyes brewed storm grey.

            ‘You canna anymore.’

            Adolpha turned from the window and cast her gaze over her granddaughter’s hair.

            ‘What wickedness it is fir a boy to cut a lass’s hair,’ she said.

            Leona sat where she was told with began to swipe the screen of her tablet.

            As she bent forward, her hair swung forward. It was roughly cut below her ear on one side, while on the other it flowed in waves to the centre of her back.

            Miss Baikie began to gather her daughter’s hair at the crown. She paused with the brush and looked up at her mother.

             ’It was the Gilmore boy,’ she said.

            ‘Gilmore?’ said Adolpha. She sighed. ‘I remember Martin Gilmore fae Deerness, on past the pinch of Dingieshowe.’ She gestured towards the east. ‘A poor scrap facing Copinsay, good for nothin except reeds. I ken the year he was caught red-handed with sheaves of another man’s bind. His was a coarse bind, a twist and a rough shank to hold the sheaf. The ones he stole had a fine coiled loop.’

            She mimed the straw moving through her fingers, twisting the stalks together.

            ‘Martin Gilmore’s sheaves alweys stood long in the field, leaning this way and that. He’d only totter to the stacking yard when the mood took him. Never bothered building a decent screw to keep the crop dry, left the sheaves until they were drunk.

            ‘That man, Martin Gilmore caught other men like a spider catches flies. He’d stand by a dyke looking at the ground so long others thought there was something of importance. They’d all gather around until half the parish was made idle, and the clouds that had been far off in the morning came spoiling to rain.

            ‘Same as the boy,’ said Miss Baikie.

            ‘It disna surprise me, Melisande.’

            ‘That boy Robbie can set another laughing with just the look on his face, and have whole groups scrambling after nothing.’

            ‘There was never a cross at the top of Martin Gilmore’s stack,’ interrupted Adolpha. ‘He roped an ugly bishop’s mitre over a stack whenever he tried, not like the minaret James Baikie could make.’

            Adolpha leaned back in her chair. Her gaze drifted to the birds on the wire and again they fell.

            She remembered standing at the base of the stacks, admiring the bulging shanks that tapered to a heavenward point. She’d guided the hands of the men with her mind, until they worked to her design.

            Adolpha’s thoughts wandered through time and she breathed again the spices of the east – myrrh and wild rosemary. She remembered the Jerusalem of her birth and its warm stones, the life before being was brought north by a red bearded man. It had been lifetimes ago.

            She’d become accustomed to the knife of the wind and the distance separating her from the sun. In time, she settled to the island, charmed by the long dark winter nights when solitude was wrapped in the glow of green and amber of solar winds sweeping the sky.

            She sat forward, animated again.

            ‘A rainy day was a fine day for twisting ropes,’ said Adolpha. ’One man was the twister while the other fed the stalks. It was an art. But Martin Gilmore never made anything worth a prize.’                       She raised a finger and pointed at a space before the hearth as if the man were on trial before her.

            ‘All he did at the Country Show was was drink and return with sour blood in his veins.’

            Melisande nodded.

            ‘Stolen from my country wasn't enough, he had to go on and steal what I had left of myself. I tell you, that night the wind ripped like a wolf through the barley.’

            Melisande kept her gaze lowered on the threads of her daughter’s hair. Deep red threads glowed in the black mane. Leona’s hair had always caught the eye, some people said she was red-headed, only to find on second look she was as raven black as her mother.   

            Miss Baikie was known for her appearance and comments were made that her presence had an unusual quality; she had an economy of movement that made the slightest fidget in others look absurd.

            Adolpha cast her gaze back to her granddaughter and then away into silver veils of rain. When she spoke again her voice was relaxed and even.

            ‘The final stack was alweys crowned with a woven cross. It was a fine moment. The men would have a dram and pass a word or two.’

            ‘Unless you were the last,’ said Miss Baikie.

            Adolpha nodded.

            ‘The Bikko greeted Martin Gilmore more than once on the stackyard gate. As well you know. ’

            Leona looked up from her screen.

            ‘What’s “The Bikko” mean Granny?’

            ‘The Bitch.’

            Miss Baikie caught her mother’s eye.

            ‘In truth, she is a wolf – the spirit of the corn.’

            ‘Why did he get it?’

            ‘Martin Gilmore had a blunt and dirty instrument that he had no right to lay into the barley.’

            ‘He doesn’t sound nice,’ said Leona.

            ‘He wasn’t,’ said Granny. ‘Not to a girl with neither mother, father or brother to protect her.’

            ‘It was a long time past mother,’ said Miss Baikie.

            ‘You know how easy time comes round again,’ said Adolpha.

            ‘Why didn't anyone help him? So he wasn't the last,’ said Leona.

            ‘Oh, child. It’s all very weel to help each other, but he wis lazy tae his bones. He’d have help aal day long while he slept behind a stook or meddled with a woman. There are tasks that should be begun and finished at the same time by aal. If the harvest wis not taken in the animals couldn’t be let out to roam. His place at the muckle supper was sorely begrudged.’

            Leona squirmed around to see her grandmother.

            ‘Hold still,’ said Miss Baikie.

            The girl turned about and concentrated on her screen. The pleat was coming together, but the blunt ends stood out where it had been shorn.

            ‘Help me mother, just a little,’ said Miss Baikie.

            The old woman sharpened her gaze on her granddaughter's red and black hair.

            ‘You’re doing fine.’

            Miss Baikie’s shoulders relaxed and her fingers found a coaxing rhythm as they worked through her daughter’s hair.

            ‘How often did you make him The Bikko?’ said Melissande.

            ‘Often enough. The men soon started barking when they saw Martin Gilmore scurrying along under the last load.’ Adolpha revealed grey pearls of teeth as she smiled then added, ‘A wife or two soon wanted smaller ones to put in their rafters. A belief grew that The BIkko would make sure your man would not be the last one home at County Show. And if he was last it was a sure sign you were better off without him.’

            Women still came and knocked at the door of Langahund. Inside they found the solace of things made more beautiful than they needed to be. With words and food, or items woven with straw visitors would have their heart’s lightened.

            Melissande tied the end of the pleat and sat back. There was no more sign of young Robbie Gilmore’s deed. The pleat was even and the braid reached to the centre of Leona’s back.

            ‘Fine work. No one will know,’ said Adolpha.

            Miss Baikie looked over her daughter’s shoulder at the screen.

            Leona was on the class blog, her index finger tracing Robbie Gilmore’s racing car icon. The tip pressed so hard it had turned white.

            The racing car flickered. It became first an air balloon, then a fish and the images went into a blur. Leona’s brow creased and her eyes flashed ice blue.

            When she released her finger.

            A wolf snarled by the boy’s name.

            Leona turned to her grandmother and smiled.

            ‘Tell me more about The Bikko Granny.’

            ‘Straw is a subtle, living material,’ said Adolpha. ‘It can be fashioned to be homely and comforting, but it has a another side. Just like The Bikko.

            ‘The Bikko disdains the lazy and the cruel. She is warrior and mother, a provider in the depths of despair. She stalks the winter sky and races through crops in harvest time.’

            ‘What does she look like?’

            Adolpha’s voice became louder and deeper.

            ‘Her mane is a silver mantle. Her eyes are sun by day and moon by night. Her claws wait in readiness to spring as she patrols the sky.

            ‘She punishes the mean, comforts the weak, protects the orphan and sets shame on the last man's head.

            ‘She is made not of straw, but of the justice and essence of life. She urges the sun into the stalks of barley, to nourish the good actions of men and women and to strengthen their children. If this energy is squandered or disdained, she is enraged. Her lips curl back and reveal the daggers of her teeth.’

            Adolpha raised her wrinkled lips.

            ‘How will I know if I hear her?’ said Leona.

            Adolpha balled a fist and held it over her heart.

            ‘You’ll feel molten inside. Her strength will surround you like a shield and you will grow more powerful than you have ever imagined.’

            ‘How do I make her?’

            Miss Baikie raised her eyebrows at her mother, but did not interrupt.

            ‘The first time The Bikko came to me I was only dawdling with straw. A great anger was in my heart at the Gilmore man. My hands moved of their own accord, twisting and coiling the stalks. I saw The Bikko take its shape and my fingers shook with energy and delight. And when she was complete I felt her breathe. I knew straight away someone would come to my aid.

            ‘She brought a man to the door,’ said Miss Baikie.

            ‘A man?’ said Leona.

            ‘James Baikie. A good man. The sort of man that when he holds a horses bridle the animal understands at once to be at peace. He stood at the threshold and asked if I knew where Martin Gilmore could be found. His sheaves were still not in and they wanted to close the yard. I shook my head.

            ‘He observed me closely, his gaze travelled from The Bikko to the blood congealed over my eye and a belly risen from pregnancy that had no right to be set upon one so young. I felt his mouth go dry. I knew the poverty and stench of Gilmore’s croft reeked inside his nostrils.

            ‘The Bikko pulled me to my feet and stepped me closer. And James Baikie took me in his cart back to his home to be cared for, a companion to his wife and a sister to his children.

            ‘He gently took the Bikko from my arms, she left willingly, and I saw from his eyes that he knew where she was to be placed.

            ‘As he turned I felt a movement in my belly and knew that the small part Martin Gilmore had contributed would have no further influence on the child. She would be wholly mine. And I would call myself Baikie from then on.’

            Adolpha glanced over to Miss Bailkie then continued.

            ‘When Martin Gilmore finally dragged the last of his sheaves to the stack yard The Bikko, was waiting. The men howled and bayed like wolves, goading and mocking him.

            ‘James Baikie forced him to take The Bikko back to his wife and explain why I had been taken away.

            ‘Martin must have laid it on the fire sending cinders around the room, scorching his furnishings and choking his wife and children. A scar was laid on his forehead.’

            Adolpha drew a finger across the centre of her crinkled brow.

            ‘Afterwards, The Bikko always found her way to the stack-yard at the end of harvest time. Good men watched the wind run through the ripening barley without fear, but others dreaded The Bikko.’

            Outside Langahund the wind had risen, it eddied around the small stone house. There was a new note. long and drawn out, fierce and restless.

            Leona rose and put her arms around her grandmother’s shoulders, she buried her nose into the soft silver hair.

            Miss Baikie smiled and stroked her daughter’s pleat.

            ‘Will you show me how to make The Bikko Granny?’

            ‘Tsh, girl. The harvest has changed noo. But I’ll show you, for the skill is a good one to master.’

The next day at school Miss Baikie’s class collected leaves from the school grounds, willow and whitebeam survived the prevailing winds.

            The children were tasked with adding leaves to a collage. Miss Baikie had cut out a silhouette for a tree that stood as tall as herself its trunk split into two branches and bowed forward held by long sinuous roots. At second glance it looked like a figure with arms reaching forward and skirts trailing on the ground.

            Miss Baikie fanned out her coloured paper.

            She offered red to Robbie Gilmore. He took it without hesitation then snatched the sharpest pair of scissors from the woodblock.

            ‘Cut carefully,’ said Miss Baikie.

            Once the class was working steadily she turned and observed the combine cutting barley on the brae. An old song came to her, one that had been sung when teams of men had swung their sickles together working across a field. It had a melody to ease the fatigue and repetition, laying a charm of forgetfulness.

            The first notes buzzed from her lips and the sound of chatter died so only the sound of scissors accompanied her tune.

            Some of the reapers used to become distracted from their task when they heard her singing. She would stand at the gate and increase tempo of her song as the end of the stretch to be cut drew near. She remembered Old Martin Gilmore’s cut and bloody hands.

            Miss Baikie smiled. How thin the veil of time was.

            At the head of the class she tapped out the rhythm with her toe as the children worked.

            Robbie’s gaze flitted to her as his scissors moved up and down, jaws opening and shutting in perfect time, like the mouth of an unstoppable combine, cutting the red paper to shreds.

            Miss Baikie rested and became silent.

            ’Dinna stop,’ piped Steven Macleod.

            ‘It’s a bonny tune,’ she said. ‘But we’ve plenty of leaves.’

            Miss Baikie uncoiled to her full height, eyes glittered. The children lowered their work.

            Only one continued to cut..

            The children turned and saw blood greased Robbie’s silver blades. Dark drops fell into the paper shreds.

            ‘You can stop now,’ said Miss Baikie.

            The boy became still, and stared at what was before him.

            ‘Too small’ said Miss Baikie.

            She handed Robbie a tissue. The boy’s eyes opened wide as if awakening.

            They were the sort of cuts that would sting whether the water was cold or hot, that would re-open easily and itch as they tried to heal, they keep him awake at night. There was a good chance they would longer to heal than Leona’s hair would take to regrow.

            Outside, the harvester came to rest. The field was empty and the spirit of the harvest was rising, as it had done hundreds of years before.

• Granny - Adolpha
• Granddaughter - Leona
• Miss Baikie - Melisande
• Stepfather - Martin Gilmore
• Farmer - James Baikie
• School boy - Robbie Gilmore