So here, where the Forthie meandered and spun with a seep of red clay down to the landfall of that lost childe Pytheas the little town crawled up into the years and the lights of history, dim and red-tainted, sometimes the outbye men came down to prowl the houses beyond the broch, till the city had a wall built round about, fit to repel the coarse landward men. Behind, on the hills, they built tall forts; and they lived and they died, worshipping their gods; and if it might be that a Dundon chief desired the wife of a Dundon pleb he stole her with unctuous voice and mien, being holy, a Dundon man even then would rape your pouches and cut your throat and tell you a funny joke while he did it, skilly and agreeable, and generally holy.

Well, this was fine, till the Norsemen came, with faces made of sour buttermilk, childes from the stinking straths and byres, squat and strong, black rotten their teeth, they never washed unless they were forced, and they’d better swords than the Dundon folk, so they couldn’t force them, apart from the fact that they thought themselves water better used for sailing a boat on than bathing themselves in. So they fought together at that first raid, some of the Northmen got into a hall and found Red Kenneth, the Sheriff of that time, sitting at play at a game of board with his lady, the Red Ane; and the fine Norse childes bulged out their eyes, sore surprised to see a woman unlike their own, not fine and squash, with a face like a mat; and they stripped her, and she took long to die under the eyes of Red Kenneth, kept raving. But afore they could finish with him as well the Dundon folk were chasing them back to their ships, and they ran with their sour whey faces blood dripping, and scrambled away through the pound and roll of the Forthie, and that was the end of them for the time. But Red Kenneth was a mad [man] from that day, and his tortures the Dundon folk might not endure after the passing of a while, a little squire cut his throat one night and ran and hid in the Dundon wynds that led down to the burned shipwright’s halls.

So Dundon was saved from the sour Norse childes, and rebuilt its kirk, and a Saint came there, a childe that cornered the droves of hogs that were pastured, black and grey they would grumph about, on the hills above Dundon itself. And he pressed the townsfolk sore for the prize of their meat, there were starving men about the wynds, some coarse creatures said that his throat should be cut. But instead he died and was made a saint. Good St Machar they christened the corp that had swollen fat on the profit of pigs, and they built a cathedral on his head and filled it full of those Catholic priests, awful creatures with brave gowns on that said when you took a sip at communion you really were eating Jesus Christ, they were awful ignorant folk in those times.