S Bolton: Sacrifice

Each woman brought out of the earth that week had had her heart cut out, just as Melissa's had been. Each had three runic symbols carved into the flesh of her back: Othila, meaning Fertility; Dagaz, the rune for Harvest; and Nauthiz: Sacrifice.

The search has been called off now, much to my dismay, because I know there must be two more bodies buried somewhere; seven KT boys were born a year after these women supposedly died. The police team insist, though, that the fields behind our house have been thoroughly searched; even Duncan and Dana are telling me to leave it now. So these women will stay out there. They may lie in the Shetland earth for all time, along with all the other women who have disappeared without trace on these islands over the centuries. Or they may turn up out of the blue one day when someone, too ignorant to know better, dares to disturb the ground.

The terns have found somewhere else to build their nests now. We don't blame them: we're going to do the same.

The stories on which Sacrifice is based are documented, but not extensively; largely because for many years Shetlanders felt no need to write them down. The remote location of the land kept its population stable and for a long time word of mouth was considered enough. I have learned that there was even a certain reluctance amongst the islanders to talk about these strange and supernatural events.

But gradually, over the years, people from outside the islands became interested, then intrigued, and books about Shetland lore began to appear in our bookshops. It was my discovery of the chilling legend of the Kunal Trows (in Aylesbury Public Library of all places) that gave rise to the idea for Sacrifice. I wrote this in the English home counties, not venturing north until it was all but complete.

And so my first real glimpse of Shetland was on a clear, crisp morning in late November. The huge expectations I'd built up over several years of writing about the land were not remotely disappointed; I thought it easily the most beautiful place I'd ever seen.

From Sumburgh airport I drove north up the main island, unable to stop smiling as each bend in the road offered a view more stunning than the last; across Yell, the colour of an autumn leaf, and on to Unst, which truly must be the loveliest and loneliest place on earth.

Throughout the day the people I met were warm and friendly, effortlessly helpful and entirely normal (what, I asked myself, had I really expected?), and I wondered that these marvellous islands could be so little understood, so rarely visited. I began to have misgivings: could I really have written such a grim story about such a warm and wonderful land? And yet…

Later that evening, Lerwick seemed unnaturally quiet and uncomfortably dark as I followed my map to the small church of St Magnus. Try as I might, I couldn't bring myself to walk down the shadowy, silent street with the weird trees and the empty, brooding buildings. I decided to come back in daylight, and walked instead towards the sea. Dark, damp fishing nets were strewn across every driveway: quite what or who they were destined to catch I didn't like to dwell on. I reached the beach, only to find a group gathered silently around a massive bonfire on the sand. Was it a delayed Guy Fawkes celebration (it was long past November 5), or something else entirely? I remembered all the stories I'd read, of women disappearing, of prisons on remote islands, of shadowy grey men who preyed on their human neighbours, and Richard's words crept, unwanted, into my head. 'So many stories, so much nonsense: little grey men who five in caves and fear iron. Yet, tucked away inside all legends, a kernel of truth can be found.'

I headed quickly back to my hotel, reflecting that, whilst I might technically still be in Britain, I was a long way from home…

Up front, a very special thank-you to Kerry and Louise, my two first readers, for proving that true honesty is something you will only ever hear from true friends (and younger sisters).

For patiently checking the medical detail, I am sincerely grateful to Dr Denise Stott and Drs Jacqui and Nick Socrates. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

On the subject of mistakes, I tried very hard to make my portrayal of Shetland as accurate as possible, but there were a few occasions when its geography just didn't fit the demands of the story. I hope the islanders will forgive the occasional liberty I've taken with their wonderful landscape.

I relied a great deal on reference material and would like to acknowledge the following works: The Book of Runes by Ralph Blum, Shetland Folklore by James R. Nicholson, British Folklore, Myths and Legends by Marc Alexander, Exploring Scotland's Heritage, HMSO Books, Northern Scotland and the Isles by Francis Thompson, Encyclopaedia of World Mythology by Arthur Cotterell, Shetland: Land of the Ocean by Colin Baxter and Jim Crumley, Around Shetland: A Picture Guide, published by the Shetland Times Ltd, British Regional Geology: Orkney and Shetland 'from the Natural Environment Research Council, Grammar and Usage of the Shetland Dialect by T. A. Robertson and John J. Graham, Bodies from the Bog by James M. Deem, Human Remains: Interpreting the Past by Andrew Chamberlain, Modern Mummies: The Preservation of the Human Body in the Twentieth Century by Christine Quigley, The Scientific Study of Mummies by Arthur C. Aufderheide, Conception, Pregnancy and Birth by Dr Miriam Stoppard and Natural Solutions to Infertility by Marilyn Glenville. For procuring most of these books for me, and never once batting an eyelid at my ever more peculiar requests, I am grateful to Sheila and her colleagues at my local library.

'There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls' is taken from the book Brain Droppings by George Carlin. Copyright © 1997 Comedy Concepts Inc. Reprinted by permission of Hyperion. All rights reserved.

I would like to thank Sarah Turner at Transworld for her confidence in the book and for her hard work in polishing away its rough edges, and also Kate Samano for her patience and thoroughness.

Last, and by no means least, my heartfelt thanks to Anne Marie Doulton of the Ampersand Agency and to the wonderful Buckman family: the best agents any author could wish for.