Deep Water

by Pamela Freeman

  There the girl herself was, a woman now, limping along with her crutch, carrying a bundle of wattle withies on the other shoulder. She was laughing at something her mother had said, and her face was alight. Not beautiful, but strong and happy, despite the ever-present crutch. She dumped her bundle of withies at Asa’s feet and rolled her shoulders as if they had been heavy. Her mother said something, with a face full of concern, but Friede brushed it off and swung around to collect another bundle from a group of young girls who were stripping the willow branches of their leaves. It was typical of Friede, Bramble thought, that she didn’t simply sit down and strip leaves with the others. Typical of her to take the harder task; the more active. She wished for a moment that she could see this world through Friede’s eyes instead of the thrall’s. She suspected she would feel right at home in that mind.

  The sun was at mid-morning and Bramble realized that it was coming not from the mountains but from the plains beyond. They were in the Domains, building a new settlement. She was puzzled. Had the battle of Death Pass already happened? Was the invasion over? She thought it would be just like the gods, to let her agonize over whether to stop the invasion and then to move her straight past it. A weight of responsibility lifted from her shoulders.

  Now all she had to do was watch Acton until he died, and see where his bones lay. No decisions, no need to understand. The invasion was over and a thousand years past and no business of hers. She felt light, and free, even under the heavy yoke. It was not her burden, after all.

  The thrall reached the end of the furrow and stopped to rest, looking down the valley to where a rough track emerged from a stand of larch and spruce. The grass either side of the track was spring green, but there was snow on the hillsides not far up and the air nipped cold at the thrall’s lungs. He had a quick, lively mind, if the rhythm and speed of his glance could be read right. He took the opportunity to observe all he could: the house-building, the women (lingering on one girl in particular, a young blond who giggled to Friede about something), the track again. There were riders coming out of the trees and the thrall raised a shout. Warning or welcome? Bramble wondered.

  The men stopped working on the building and dusted off their hands, moving to greet the newcomers. Hawk was in the lead on a chestnut, a longer-legged version of the shaggy hill ponies from the other side of the mountain. One of the Wind Cities’ desert horses cross-bred with the mountain horses?

  As he dismounted and threw his reins to one of his followers, Hawk pointed at the thrall and laughed. “Have you tamed no working beasts, then, in your Ice King’s country?”

  Although she had thought exactly the same thing, Hawk’s mocking tone annoyed Bramble. Who was he to criticize?

  Acton came forward, smiling. “Our ox broke his leg on the mountain path, and fell,” he said. “The wolves will eat well for a while. We make do.”

  “Hmm.” Hawk pretended to consider, sending quick glances toward the women who had stopped work to listen. Asa had apparently accepted Hawk’s contempt toward women, for she made no move to join the men. Hawk’s glance lingered on the blond girl and Friede. The thrall saw it, and his heart sped up, his hands clenched.

  “So,” Hawk said. “Perhaps we can lend you one of our beasts until you can bring another over the mountains.”

  Cooperating? Hawk letting Acton build a settlement near his land? No! This wasn’t what had happened! Could she have changed history without even knowing it? Could the past have shifted so much just because she had observed it? Or had Dotta changed things somehow?

  “That would be most kind.” Swef’s voice came from behind the thrall and he and the others turned around in surprise. Swef moved easily down the hillside, carrying a huge pile of withies across his shoulders. For this gathering chore, he had swapped his good red leather boots for the plain sheepskin ones everyone else wore. “If we do not get the seeds in, it will be a hard winter and a harder spring.”

  Hawk nodded. Swef dumped the withies at the feet of the blond girl. She giggled. Gods give me patience! Bramble thought. What is it about pretty girls and giggles? But she knew very well what it was. Every man there was aware of the blond. Except Acton, who was ignoring her, inspecting the next set of stones for the wall. Now that was strange. She didn’t want her opinion of him to improve, but she had to admire his lack of interest in the giggler.

  Asa rose and took several of the girls behind the building to where a line of carts with blankets stretched between them served as storage as well as sleeping tents. She came back with drinking horns and sent the girls around with them. Even Friede took a horn to a young man working a little way away, using a hatchet to lop branches and bark from more of the thick supporting posts. It was Baluch. He had grown and filled out, like Acton, so that he looked more like a young man than a boy. Acton was handsome in a lithe, muscular way, and he moved like a hunting animal, but Baluch had a grace of movement which said to Bramble that he was working in time to some internal music. Friede lingered as he drank and took back the horn with a few words. Baluch laughed. Friede was attractive in a way completely different from the giggling blond, and Baluch clearly knew it. Their eyes were warm on each other.

  The thrall’s gaze returned to Hawk and Swef, who were looking over the new building. Acton was a little way off, staring back toward Baluch. Or toward Friede? Bramble wondered, but doubted it. Unlikely that a warrior like Acton would want a girl on a crutch.

  “Acton!” Swef called. “Show our guest your work!”

  Acton went over to them readily enough to point out the elements of the building. The thrall lost interest and began to settle the yoke back onto his shoulders. He still watched the chieftains. Delaying the moment of hard work a little longer, Bramble guessed.

  “Only one building?” Hawk asked, that superior tone in his voice.

  “The hall comes first. After that, the women’s quarters and the outbuildings.”

  “You don’t have separate houses?” Again the barely suppressed scorn. Acton smiled, a smile the thrall recognized as dangerous, because he gripped the yoke harder as though he held a weapon, ready to defend if necessary.

  “We do best when we live and work together,” Swef said smoothly. “You can see,” he pointed to the carts lined up behind the building, “we need a good large storage area before anything else.”

  “Yes,” Hawk said. “I can see that.”

  Swef laid a hand familiarly on his shoulder, guiding him away from the building toward where the thrall was working. He smiled a companionable smile, but the thrall still kept hold of his yoke. “We’re planning to put our sheepfold over here.”

  The waters came as a surprise. But what happened? Bramble thought as they tumbled her helplessly, as though she were a leaf in a mountain stream. What had happened to change history? Cooperation. Peace. A gradual settlement, not sudden invasion. Bramble swelled with gratitude and happiness. No matter how it had happened, there it was. There was only one thing which worried her now. If the past had changed so that the invasion was peaceful, why was she still here? Perhaps, in the Domains created by this new past, she didn’t exist? Or was she condemned to live out Acton’s life no matter what happened in it? The thought puzzled her, but it could not cut deeply into the great sense of relief and joy she felt.

  Her bones ached. Every bone, each of them with its own special pain.

  “I’m too old,” her voice was saying, creaking a little. “I’m too old to go stravaging across mountains like a goat.”

  “Never too old, Ragni,” Acton’s voice came back, warm and teasing. “You’re just a lass! Never fear, I’ll carry you across myself and give you a good cuddling on the way!”

  Ragni laughed and coughed as she laughed. She was sick, clearly. Every cough hurt her chest like it was being torn open. Phlegm filled her throat and she turned to spit politely in the fire. It was the fire in Harald’s hall. They were back over the mountains at Harald’s steading and it was cold, cold, colder than hell. Much colder than it had
been the night Acton and Baluch had gone looking for Friede. Was that the Ice King’s doing?

  “You save your cuddles for them as wants them!” Ragni scolded Acton tenderly. “There’s plenty as does, I hear!”

  Acton shrugged. He was sitting with his back to the fire, resting against the raised stones of the hearth. His hair was lit up and his face was in shadow, but Ragni saw something, Bramble couldn’t tell what, and leaned forward.

  “What is it, lad?”

  “Oh, the only girl I want doesn’t want me, of course,” he said, brushing off her concern as a joke. “Isn’t that always the way of it?”

  Ragni clucked her tongue. “She’s a fool, then,” she said roundly. “Her loss, lad, her loss.”

  “Mmm . . .” he said.

  “It’s not that silly chit Edwa, is it?” Ragni said sharply. “She’s got all the boys after her but she’s not worth a piece of rag, not in her bones. She’d make a bad wife, boy, a bad, willful wife.”

  Acton chuckled. “No, no, I’m not such a fool as that. I can’t stand the giggles!”

  Ragni nodded with satisfaction. “Well, then. Who?”

  Acton shook his head, his face unreadable. “Fewer words, less regret,” he said. It was a very old saying. Bramble had always thought it was a Traveler proverb.

  “Huh . . .” Ragni said, unconvinced. “Well, it’s good to have you back from Swef’s new steading, lad. It was the worst day’s work Harald ever did, when he let you go. Asgarn has done as he should, letting you come back, even if it’s only for a visit.”

  “Asgarn’s a good chieftain,” Acton said. “He’s looking after things well, and he’ll lead you well when the time comes to make the trip across to the new settlement.”

  Ragni sniffed and spat again, looking across the fire to where a table of men sat, talking. Asgarn was one of them, Bramble saw, and the others were some of the chieftains who had stood on the ledge at the All Moot.

  “You should be over there,” Ragni said stubbornly.

  “Oh, I’m no good at figuring how many barrels can fit into so many carts, Ragni,” Acton said comfortably. “They can have their planning, and welcome to it. We’ll need good plans, to get everyone who wants to come over the mountains and into good, solid halls by next winter.”

  “It’s not going to work.”

  “Not in one year,” Acton agreed. “It’ll have to happen in stages, as the steadings closest to the mountains move over first, and let the ones further out, the ones who are being hard-pressed by the Ice King’s men, shift in as they leave.”

  “Thought you were no good at planning?” Ragni said. He laughed.

  The fire spat and hissed as a cow pat broke apart and burnt, smouldering. “That’s the scent of home,” Acton said. “Over the mountains they burn wood all the time, can you believe it?”

  Ragni sniffed. “I miss your mother,” she said.

  Acton patted her on the knee — a comforting touch, warm and gentle.

  “So do I,” he agreed.

  He looked up as the door opened to show a winter evening, light snow falling steadily, transformed for a moment into small flames by the light of the fire.

  “Here’s Baluch,” Ragni said with pleasure. “Give us a tune, boy.”

  Baluch came in unwinding a hat-scarf from around his face. He pulled off his gloves and coat and sat down gladly by the fire, fishing a pipe out of his pocket. “It’s building up to be a wild night,” he said cheerfully. “I wonder how they’re doing, over the other side of the mountain? I’ll wager it’s not as cold as here.”

  Acton grinned at him. “And there’s no Asgarn to make you go out in the cold to tend the sheep,” he teased.

  “You’d be just as bad, over the mountains,” Baluch retorted.

  “Oh, I’m not chieftain there, Bal, any more than I am here. I’m just another pair of hands.”

  “You’re Swef’s heir,” Ragni interjected with energy. “Don’t you let him forget it!”

  Acton laughed. “Wili is Swef’s heir, Ragni.”

  “A girl! Well, there’s a way to solve that. It’d be a good marriage for you both, and your place as chieftain would be safe.”

  Acton waved that idea away. “Tell you the truth, Ragni, I don’t care if I’m never chieftain, there or anywhere.”

  The old woman made the sign averting evil. “Don’t let the gods hear you say that, lad!”

  Both the young men laughed, as Ragni shook her head at them, clucking her tongue.

  “Tch! You should be ashamed, laughing at an old woman!” But her tone was indulgent.

  Bramble wondered again if she were just going to live through Acton’s life now, day by day, bit by bit, until he died and the spell came undone. Then where would she find herself? Back at Obsidian Lake, or in the darkness beyond death, waiting to be reborn? Part of her didn’t really care. Then, as if in response to her thought, Baluch stopped laughing and stood up.

  His face was white, his eyes stretched wide as if trying to see beyond the walls of the hall. He dropped the pipe and it fell into the fire, but he didn’t notice. Acton tried to flick it out with a stick, but the pipe flared up in a sudden brightness. The flame lit Baluch’s face from below, turning it into a death’s head, a skull mask over the man beneath.

  No, Bramble thought, recognizing the gods’ touch even at a distance, feeling them pour into Baluch and open his mind. No. It was going so well . . .

  Baluch screamed. His mouth opened wider than seemed possible and the scream came out wild and tortured, without thought or control. It was the kind of scream a woman makes in childbirth, when the pain has pushed her beyond being human, back into the animal life. But worse, because underneath was grief and horror.

  Everyone in the hall came to their feet. Acton stood close to Baluch, a hand reaching out but pausing, waiting. Asgarn and the chieftains ran from the other side of the fire and stopped as he screamed again, and then gulped air and started to speak, his eyes wide but his own again, Baluch’s eyes.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  “Is it a fit?” one of the chieftains asked.

  Acton shook his head. “No. No. Sometimes, the gods speak to him.”

  “He’s not a chieftain,” Asgarn said.

  “Even so, Ragni knows.”

  The old woman nodded. “Harald would never accept it, but we all knew. The gods speak to him.”

  Acton laid his hand delicately on Baluch’s shoulder. Baluch was trembling.

  “What has happened?” Acton asked gently.

  Baluch’s shaking increased until only Acton’s support kept him from falling.

  “They are killing them.”

  “Who?” Asgarn said. He moved closer, taking command, and Acton fell silent but put his arm around Baluch, physically holding him up.

  “Hawk. Hawk and his men . . .” Baluch’s eyes snapped shut as though he couldn’t bear to look at something. “No!” he howled. “Friede!” He struggled against Acton’s hold as if he could walk through the fire to save her. Acton’s face paled but he hung on tighter.

  “Hawk has attacked?” Asgarn asked.

  “Attacked,” Baluch moaned. “Killed. Friede. All the men. Taken. Edwa! Asa . . .” He drew out Asa’s name on a long breath and then fell silent.

  The hall was deathly quiet. Baluch’s head dropped and Bramble could feel the gods leave him. If she had been in her own body she would have been shaking and crying with anger. How could she have thought it would happen easily? Why had she let herself hope? Cooperation! Hah! You couldn’t expect cooperation from warriors, she didn’t care what color hair they had. All they wanted to do was kill. Her heart had shriveled inside her and sat in her chest like a sharp rock. Or was that Ragni’s pain?

  Baluch raised his head and turned it with an effort, looking into Acton’s eyes. “Asa. Your mother fought. She killed one as he, as he tried to . . .” Baluch shook his head. “Another struck her down.”

  “She has killed a rapist before,” Acton said, his voice flat.
“My father will no doubt welcome him to the coldest pit of hell.”

  “Friede . . .” Baluch sighed.

  “Tell us of Friede,” Acton said, suddenly urgent.

  Baluch hid his face in his hands and wept. “She fought also. Swef tried to protect her. It took three of them to kill him. Then they killed her. It was —” His voice hiccupped. “It was quick, at least.”

  Acton turned away. Ragni watched him, her heart twisting in her. The one girl, Bramble thought, who wasn’t interested in him… She didn’t want to feel sympathy for any of them, but how could she help it?

  “Edwa?” Asgarn said. “You said her name…?”

  Baluch wiped his tears away and looked around the group of chieftains. “They have taken the younger girls. To use later. To be slaves. Killed the men, stole everything, burnt the hall. They . . .” he faltered, “they killed the older women, too, after they… used them. Who kills women who don’t fight? More than a raid. It was more than a raid. They wanted to wipe us out.”

  “She’s still alive?” Asgarn was intent.

  “Edwa. Wili. A few others. The prettiest ones.” His voice was thick with scorn and hatred.

  As if Baluch’s words were a signal, talk broke out in the hall. Shouts, cries, sobs. Acton turned back to the group of chieftains. Baluch sank down and laid his head in Ragni’s lap. She stroked his hair unsteadily.

  “I claim revenge,” Acton said. “My mother. My chieftain. My friends.” He turned to Asgarn. “I know you are chieftain here now, and that I do not dispute. But we must return death for death to these animals, these lying, scheming traitors, and I will do it.”

  His voice was without emotion. His anger, his grief, had pushed him past feeling. All that was left was the desire to kill, and it shone clearly in his eyes and showed in the set of his shoulders and the tightness of his fists. At last, Bramble thought, with a kind of relief. Here he is: Acton the killer. He’s so young. What, eighteen? Nineteen? Young.