The Tooth! | Midwinter Moot 2023

Author: D. Irving, Word Count: 1,200

Featured in Midwinter Archaeological Story Moot: Live Stream – Christmas 2023

The day had started well enough, clear blue skies with a pale sun had made the trip up
almost pleasant, Angus, his guide, had from time to time pointed out another cairn,
disused mine or illicit still. Their destination was a newly discovered cairn which some
badgers had occupied; access was via their front door. Looking through the opening
Alex couldn’t see very far into the mound , the floor of the passage was clean save a
few leaves so he slowly made his way inside ‘stalled cairn’ he thought to himself. From
outside he could hear Angus muttering to himself, then he heard a movement, then he
saw the eyes.
Now they were on the way down, the weather had turned quickly after they left, first the
wind had brought low purple clouds then thick, blanketing snow, just behind him Angus
sang a scandalous song about hedgehogs interjected with curses, it had sounded a lot
bigger in the dark. The snow scrunched under foot, the rustle of cloth and his ragged
breathing filled his world, then from behind came a scream, shock, anger, despair
combined in a single chilling ululation;
“Aaaaaaarrrrrrghhhhhhhhhmenadgers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Angus, in his kilt, had found a drift. With a smile and silent laugh he plodded on
knowing only too well that that would be the recounted in the pub tonight, the pub, that
sanctuary of light and warmth, was still a mile away, his caravan in the car park
boasted a dozen candles and a biology lesson on the walls. Scrunch, scrunch,
squelch, he’d reached the bog so half a mile to go, looking back he waited for Angus, a
faint reassuring whiff of burning peat passes by, his mind conjures images of people
long past who huddled around fires telling of their exploits, it was strange but one
seemed to be talking about a tooth, and gesturing rudely at him.
Scrunch, scrunch, crunch, gravel, an odd feeling, he turns to Angus “Is it me or are you
following me?” even as he asked he knew it was a stupid question, of course Angus
was following him, Angus replied “It’s no me, but I ken ye feeling, mebbe sumat
followed us, yous didnae take owt did ye? I told ya look but nae touch” “I’m an
archaeologist not Indiana Jones, removing even a tiny bead could change how we
interpret the story of those people!” Reaching for the door latch Angus replies “Ma
families had the eye for generations, an I’m reckoning sumat followed us hame, I’m
also reckoning yous owe me a large dram or three fer today’s wee jaunt.”
The pub soon filled with sheep people, the elders in big coats and worn suits
waterproofed by the sheep they handled every day, all were wearing big boots that
were more repair than boot while string, clippers, sheep liniment and the odd pipe
poked from apron pockets, the men’s being leather and the ladies a variety of gaudy
flower prints, headgear was universal, and knitted. The few youngsters sported green
wellies, jeans and smart waistcoats. Soon the air was a fug laced with a twang of
liniment which made his eyes water, he wasn’t drunk, well not very, but for some
reason there seemed to be two hands reaching for his drink. At some point one of

those other hands passed him a bottle whose rather tatty label declared it to be
‘Granny’s Best Sheep Tonic’, later those hands guided him to his bed.
A gentle snoring filled the caravan, candles flickered, his warm breath steamed,
condensation formed, the droplet dropped, “Wha !”. Shocked awake he hears the wind
as it whistles a word ‘toooooooo-oooof, tooooooooo-ooof’, he feels the cold on his
face, his brain hears “Maaaaaaatoooooooth, matoooth, you’ve got ma tooth” the voice
is both urgent and near, slowly he opens an eye, the face was inches from his own, it
smiled.
It took a while but once the shock wore off he decided this was an hallucination
otherwise the voice wouldn’t be in his head, they had warned him about drinking on the
tablets and this was the price, his stomach suggested there may be another price to
pay.
“Interesting wee cave you’ve got here, a bit on the damp side no? how do these flames
on sticks work?” said his hallucination “Oh, and my names Little White Flower In The
Spring, you can call me Little Flower”
“They’re candles, errrrr a piece of thread repeatedly dipped in wax or sometimes
molded, and I’m Alex” “Why did I just answer myself?” he asked himself.
“Because I’m no yourself, when you talk tay yourself you sound like this, this is you
talking to yourself, see totally different, especially with this stupid whistle. The whistle
I’ve got because you stole ma tooth.”
“But I didn’t steal anything, I went no further than the passage, I’m an archaeologist not
some Indiana Jo……”
“Aye aye I heard that bonnywee speech, quite passionate, but if my tooth were ney
here then I couldna be ye ken?.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have you’re tooth”
“Then what’s this?” an arm he couldn’t see tried to lift his boot, “Crivens, keep
forgetting tay concentrate”, the face frowned, slowly the thought of the boot rose and
turned in the air. “There you see! ma tooth you stole ma tooth ye wee scunner!”
An incisor, discolored and slightly worse for wear, was stuck snugly between the tread
on his boots.
“Oh Gods I am so sorry, animals must have moved it, I’ll take it back in the morning”
“You’ll do nay such thing young man, I’ve spent 6,139 years in there and I want to see
some life again, if they had cremated me like I asked I’d be free to roam but kids and
their new ideas about returning to the womb mean I’m stuck here”

“I’m sorry but I must put it back”
“You respect the wishes o’ the dead yes? weeeeell this dead person wishes to go to
the pub.”
“I, I really can’t argue with that, but it feels wrong, all my career I’ve followed the rules
to start breaking them now……………”
“How many times has a ghoolie spoken ta yous?”
“Erm…… Well never”
“Ifin it helps you can replace ma tooth with something useful, say a wee tool or bit of
food”
“All I have to do is leave your tooth in the pub and that’s it, does it need to be
somewhere special?”
“Not really, when you go for breakfast I’ll look around, now lets seal the deal”
A cork squeaks and the smell of single malt fills the air, his stomach caught a whiff,
“Who’s god?” asked Little Flower.
Leaving the pub after breakfast Alex made his way back up the hill, the snow had
melted overnight leaving the ground sodden and slippery, he was slightly distracted by
the now distant voice in his head singing along to the radio. His offering was simply
his breakfast, which the landlord had had the foresight to cremate, wrapped in a clean
hanky. Arriving he slithered into the cairn and tossed his offering far into the darkness,
he saw the eyes, they saw him, this time it wasn’t a hedgehog.