by Lisa Klein
The weather also changes, and with violence. Even before the fall crops are ready to be gathered, icy winds blow from the north and cover every green thing in heavy white rime. Murdo’s barley freezes and falls limp in the fields. Mother and I have to walk all the way to Inverness to buy grain, and it is so scarce that we can afford only a little. The winter months bring snow so deep that the sheep cannot reach the ground to graze and so they begin to die.
One day, six wolves threaten our flock even as Colum and I stand watch. Though we draw closer to the fire and throw rocks at them, they creep toward us, their teeth bared and their eyes gleaming with gold fire. I am afraid they will attack me, but instead they seize two sheep—not even the weakest ones—and the pack melts away, their tawny coats blending with the dead, gray-brown grasses. The bleating of the hapless creatures rises to the pitch of a scream before ceasing.
“Albia, did you notice anything unusual about those wolves?” Colum asks into the silence.
“Aye, they were fat. It could not have been hunger that made them so fearless.”
“Did you see their eyes? Something evil held those wolves, to be sure,” he says in a dire tone.
“Do you think Nocklavey is abroad?” I whisper. “And that is why everything is dead and destroyed?”
But Colum does not answer.
My mother is also in the grip of something unnatural. Her cheeks grow hollow and she shivers her very flesh away even while she sits directly before the fire.
The prowling wolves, the deathly cold, and my mother’s illness throw Helwain into distress. She scatters animal bones and mutters over their meaning until the clattering crazes me. I cover my ears until I cannot help shouting at her.
“Throw those damned bones outside. Can’t you see my mother is ill? Use your magic to make her well, you old fatereaper!”
Helwain turns on me. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Tell me why!” She grabs me by the throat as if to shake an answer from me.
I push her away and she goes sprawling into the fire. She screams as her hand touches the embers. Mother leaps up from her bed, her feverish eyes burning.
“Albia, never lift your arm against my sister!” she rasps.
I hide my head and shake with tears as Mother spreads Helwain’s gnarled hand upon a cold stone to ease the burning. But I still believe that Helwain is mad and that I will also go mad if I have to live with her any longer.
In February, Helwain makes us go with her to Stravenock Henge, where the moon and stars align with the stones to reveal when spring will come. Mother is so weak I must hold her up as we cross the frozen streams and clamber up icy hillsides. Helwain uses two walking staffs to keep from falling.
In the grip of the killing winter, the heath bears no sign of life, not a nighthawk or a raven or even a mouse. The tall stones of Stravenock Henge are slippery with white rime that forms patterns more intricate than those of the most skillful cloth-weavers. As we lean close to admire the icy designs, our breath makes them disappear.
Helwain scans the sky, but the moon stays hidden, and not a single star peeps through the blanket of night. Mother and I huddle together, blowing on our hands to keep them warm. Suddenly a bearlike creature lumbers into the henge, giving us all a fright. It is only Rhuven, covered in furs borrowed from her lady. She opens her arms and wraps Mother and me in her warmth.
Helwain shouts to the black sky, “O moon, show us your face!”
“Listen to her. She is mad,” I say to my mother and Rhuven.
“Nay, Albia,” says Mother. “For if the moon does not appear, then it means that the god of night has usurped the moon goddess. That is why the seasons fail and nature is out of joint.”
“I fear this is my lord and my lady’s doing,” Rhuven murmurs. “On that terrible night, I overheard her summon the god of night.”
“She called upon Blagdarc?” says Helwain in disbelief. “How did she come by such power?”
Rhuven’s whispering is lost to my ears. Then Helwain’s staff clatters against the stones like a lightning crack.
“By Guidlicht and all the gods! Are you saying that Macbeth and his lady—”
My mother interrupts. “Rhuven, why didn’t you stop them?”
“I did not understand, until it was too late!” Her voice trembles with tears.
“Ah, Macbeth was bound to act,” Helwain says knowingly. “And now Blagdarc rules through him, wrecking the order of nature.”
“Indeed there is nothing but misery with us,” Rhuven laments. “Sleep never comes to my lady, and she and my lord abuse each other. Luoch will not be ruled by Macbeth, saying the man is no father to him. The warriors who loved Duncan refuse to serve Macbeth. They drink and fight constantly. Horses thrash about in their stalls until they brain themselves. The lakes are frozen and even the seas are empty of fish.”
“What is to become of us all?” Mother murmurs.
The moon never shows her face. We trudge back home and fall asleep. When I wake up, Mother is sitting beside me, red-eyed, as if she has been crying all night.
“It is time to say farewell, my dear.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.
Rhuven comes and takes my hands. “Geillis is not going away. You are.”
“Then where am I going?”
Helwain rears up from the shadows. “Away from here! You were not meant to live and die in the Wychelm Wood.” She waves her arms at me. “Go, find your own fate, let me grow old in peace.”
Stricken, I turn to my mother. She shakes her head.
“You cannot be happy here, Albia,” she says sadly. “Go with Rhuven. She knows a good man and his wife who will foster you in their household. There you will learn the customs of the world and how to find your way in it.”
“But how can you send me to live with strangers? I want to go to the shieling with Colum in the summers. I’ll miss the sheep!” Tears begin to roll down my face.
“It is for your own good,” says Mother, embracing me. “One day you will understand.”
I pull away from her and say coldly, “I cannot understand a mother who would send her own daughter away from home.”
“There is much that you do not understand,” says Helwain, frowning.
“Enough, sister!” Mother warns.
My few clothes are quickly packed on the horse that Rhuven and I will take turns riding. As we set out, I feel a stirring of anticipation, like the first time I went to the shieling. I will live with a real family! I might become friends with their children.
At the edge of the Wychelm Wood, we stop at Murdo’s cottage so I can say good-bye to Colum. He greets us with a puzzled look on his face.
“Are you going on a journey? At this time of year?”
“Rhuven is taking me to the town of Dunbeag. I will live in a thane’s castle, among all sorts of people. Will you take care of my sheep until I come home?”
“You know I will watch them as if they were mine. But why must you go?” His face clouds over.
I choke back sudden tears. “Don’t ask. I will miss you, Colum.”
“Dunbeag is only a day’s journey. I will visit you, if summer ever comes again.”
Rhuven is talking to Murdo, who strokes his beard and nods. I hear her asking him to look after her sisters. I feel a stab of guilt that I didn’t even try to persuade Mother that she needed me. Why? Because I want to leave, and for that I feel even worse.
“What is wrong?” says Colum. “What are you thinking?”
“Of my poor mother!” I sigh, then shake my head stubbornly. “But I am not deserting her, for she sent me away!”
“Don’t be sore. You are a fledged bird now, almost grown. Why, in two years you will be as old as I am now,” he says, thrusting out his chest.
“And in two years you will be a man,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Is that a beard on your cheeks?” I reach up playfully to touch his face.
He takes my hands in his and with a sudden move spins me
around so that I am pinned in his arms. He picks me up and I scream.
“I don’t want to wrestle now. Put me down!” I laugh and twist in his arms.
“Albia, my lambkin, don’t think you can run away from me! I’ll come after you and bring you home to the flock.”
The sensation of Colum’s arms about me lingers long after he sets me down, and I feel less alone as Rhuven and I follow the glen southward towards Dunbeag. The frozen grass crunches underfoot. I know I will see Colum again, but for now I am leaving behind want and worry and fearsome wolves for something unknown but new and therefore promising. The brisk pace warms me, stirring up hopeful thoughts like brew in a kettle.
Then in my mind I see Mother’s worn-looking face and the sadness in her eyes when I did not return her farewell embrace. Regret washes over me. What kind of daughter am I? I should stay by her side, Helwain be damned, and love her to the end, like a good daughter.
Chapter 9
Dunbeag
Albia
Weak winter sun shines on a cluster of turf houses in the valley of the River Findhorn. Thin strands of smoke drift from the roof-holes.
“Why, Rhuven, this is no more than a village!” I say, disappointed.
“Aye, but Dunbeag is important.” She points to the top of the hill, where a large timber fort overlooks the huddled houses. “This is the seat of Banquo, chief of the king’s army in these northern shires. He is an honest and kindly man who will protect you.”
So I am to stay with Banquo, the man I glimpsed with Macbeth on Wanluck Mhor! I hide my surprise, for as far as Rhuven knows, I was asleep while she and her sisters danced and greeted Macbeth, then argued about Helwain’s promises to him.
“Protect me from whom?” I ask.
Rhuven ignores my question. “Banquo’s wife needs a companion. The advantages of such a position can be great, as you see.” She spreads her arms for me to admire her soft woolen gown. “A gift from the queen, whom I have served since she was a mere girl.”
“Do Banquo and his wife have children?” I ask.
“A son who is near manhood. Their daughter died lately. She was your age.”
Do they expect me to replace her? Anxious, I follow Rhuven up the hill.
Banquo reminds me of a bear with his large hands, short, wide body, and bushy brown beard. His laugh even sounds like a growl, though a friendly one. He welcomes me with a wide smile. His wife Breda, on the other hand, is thin, sharp-featured, and cold. The hand she extends feels limp and damp as it touches mine, and her eyes dart around to avoid meeting mine. I know at once she does not want me in her home.
Rhuven whispers to me, “I will bring you some clothes when I come back. She doesn’t seem the generous type.” Her parting advice is brief. “Always remember to say ‘Aye, my lady’ or ‘Aye, my lord.’ ”
Compared to the roundhouse with its low walls and soot-blackened interior, the thane’s fort is spacious, clean, and comfortable. Rush mats cover the floors, and heavy woven cloth hangs on the walls to keep in the warmth. The windows have shutters, and the ceilings are made of real timber. At one end of the house stands a wide hearth where the cooking is done, and at the opposite end is a smaller hearth, so that all the rooms in between are warmed.
Breda leads me up the narrow steps to a tiny room with a single window under the slanting roof. It holds a heather-stuffed mattress and baskets for storage. There I stay for the rest of the day, afraid to come down until I am bidden. I smell fish cooking, and fresh bread, but no one comes to offer me food. I lie down upon my mattress and think of Mother, until I begin to cry from loneliness and hunger. Finally sleep overtakes me.
In the morning I open my eyes to see a surly-faced boy frowning down at me. He nudges my leg with his foot.
“I am no servant, you know,” he says. “It’s just this one time I’ll bring you something to eat.”
I sit up and take the plate of cold fish and the flour cake he thrusts at me.
“Then who are you?” I ask.
“Fleance, son of Banquo,” he replies with a look that suggests I am stupid not to know him. He does resemble the thane, with his thick brown hair and sturdy build.
“My name is Albia,” I offer, trying to smile. But already I dislike this ill-bred carl.
“Our little fosterling,” he says with a sneer. “Here to share the family hearth and fill my mother’s empty heart. Couldn’t my father have chosen a lass who was bonny?”
How do I even reply? I know my dress is rough and my hair untidy. But am I really so plain? Tears start into my eyes. Not all boys are as kind as Colum; this is the first lesson life at Dunbeag teaches me.
A sharp voice sounds from below. “Fleance! Send her down here now.”
I scramble to my feet and stumble down the steep stairs. There Breda stands with a look in her ice-blue eyes that makes me feel guilty, though I have done nothing wrong.
“You are to eat with us, pray with us, and at all other times busy yourself with spinning, weaving, cooking, and whatever I shall require of you,” she says. Her voice is harsh and her tongue gives the familiar words a strange shape.
“Aye, my lady,” I reply as Rhuven advised.
“And you shall call us ‘Mother’ and ‘Father,’ for my husband wishes it,” she says. Her nostrils flare with dislike.
“Aye, my lady. I mean … Mother.” I no more want to call her that than she wants to hear it.
“Ha!” Fleance’s sudden laugh is like the bark of a hound.
“Away with you!” Breda says to him. “And don’t come back without a deer to feed us. Even if you must trespass on the king’s land.”
Fleance and Banquo leave for the hunt, and my hours with Breda pass with little conversation. I watch her weave on a loom the size of a doorway. The frame leans against a wall and its warp threads are held down with clay weights. With fast fingers she passes the shaft back and forth between the vertical woolen threads.
“I have never seen a loom like that,” I finally say.
“I brought it with me from Norway.”
I wonder if all people from over the seas have such pale blue eyes and hair the color of ripening wheat.
“Why did you come to Scotland?”
“I was brought here. To be his wife.” Breda says no more, but jerks the weft threads tight. I notice that the cloth she weaves is bordered by a delicate gray band, like a cloud skimming the horizon.
When Banquo and Fleance return from the hunt, the quiet house suddenly rings with noise and life.
“Breda, my wife!” shouts Banquo, striding into the room, his tunic splattered with blood. He kisses her loudly, then turns to me. “And Albia, my girl.” With his huge hand he touches my head and I smile for the first time today.
Fleance follows his father, carrying a bow. “Mother, I did as you bade me,” he says eagerly. “It was I who brought down the doe even as she ran for the trees. My arrow caught her in the neck.”
“That is a good son,” she says without smiling.
My heart stirs with pity for the doe. I hate Fleance for being proud of killing such a noble creature.
That venison feast is the first I eat while seated at a table. With Mother and Helwain I am used to eating from a common bowl that rests on our knees. But at Dunbeag we each have our own platter. I am startled by the greed with which Banquo and Fleance devour their food, smacking their lips and cracking bones with their teeth. Banquo’s beard is greasy with bits of food. Her lips pressed tightly together, Breda reaches over and wipes it clean with a cloth, and Banquo laughs, making the table shake.
Before retiring at night, Banquo makes everyone in the household kneel while he speaks into his folded hands, calling upon “the Lord God and his only begotten son, Jesus” again and again. The image of a mighty warrior and his son comes to my mind. They must be the same gods that Colum’s priest worships. Banquo and his family have probably never heard of Neoni and Guidlicht and the four worlds.
“And Lord God we thank you for bringi
ng into our midst Albia, this daughter for us to foster as you do care for us. Amen.”
Surprised to hear my own name, I glance over at the great bear of a man, his face bowed to the earth. A feeling of warmth spreads over me. Is this what it is like to have a father?
I lower my head so that no one can see my trembling chin.
Spring comes to Dunbeag reluctant as a wayward child. A pallid sun barely shines, no rain falls, and the plants that poke from the hard ground are more yellow than green. Some trees and bushes do not bloom at all. In the town of Dunbeag, a dozen sheep and goats are stillborn and people are still dying from winter’s diseases. Or worse, they kill each other. The stonecutter’s wife poisoned her husband to put an end to his beatings, and a crofter stabbed his neighbor in a dispute. Banquo prays to his God for relief, asking that the grip of Satan—who must be the god of their Under-world—be loosened from us.
I overhear Banquo complaining to Breda that King Macbeth has seized more land from his thanes, worsening the people’s want. Now it is a crime for anyone in Dunbeag to hunt in the nearby forests as they always have, to farm the Findhorn Valley, or to pasture their sheep there. Banquo turns a blind eye to those who use the king’s lands, for he hunts there himself. But he cannot ignore Macbeth’s demand for more warriors equipped with new armor and horses. To satisfy his king, Banquo must press his tenants for their rents and tax the villagers. If he were not such a good and generous man, the people of Dunbeag would grumble even more.
I, too, feel a loyalty to Banquo because of his kindness to me. Like a favored hound fed on marrow-filled bones, I want to please him.
“Do you have a kiss for your foster father, my daughter?” he asks, and I oblige him, finding a bare spot high on his bearded cheek. He smells of smoke and sweat and, sometimes, stale food. Whenever he brings a gift for Breda, he brings one for me as well. My favorite is a shiny brass buckle decorated with knots and the figure of a bird. I wear it on my belt every day.
Fleance is as rude to me as his father is kind. He sees that I sometimes limp and calls me a “hirple-foot,” an insult I endure in pained silence. I wonder if Fleance is cruel because his father is rough with him and his mother cold and distant. Even so, that does not excuse his meanness.