Warrior Daughter

by Paisley, Janet

  ‘You have a fine chariot,’ Kerrigen countered, and her warriors relaxed.

  ‘The finest,’ Mara boasted, ‘but the skill is mine. I could race the wind’ – her eyes held the queen's – ‘and beat it.’ Silence thundered into the room; drinking ceased.

  ‘That, I'd like to see.’ Kerrigen raised her horn. ‘Tomorrow,’ she challenged, as she always did, to keep the ambitious warrior in check, ‘against me, and the wind in my wake.’ Laughter erupted then, with cheers and toasts to the queen.

  During the race, Kerrigen's chariot struck a rock on the turn and toppled, throwing her out. Her winged helmet had been knocked aside as she fell. She was very broken when they brought her home, but she was alive. That was seven days ago. Now, she was dead.

  Skaaha swallowed the last of the cordial, sat the horn back in its hearth stand and crossed to her mother's chamber. At the curtain, she hesitated, screwed up her courage then slipped inside and stopped again, head down, staring at the floor, at the shadows cast by the lamps that shifted like living things, dancing over the sheepskins.

  On the other side of the curtain, the singing ended. They would all talk now, and eat. When she was able to, she looked across at the bed. Her mother had died looking at her. They'd been alone together, Skaaha about to wash her, carefully, ever so carefully, as she'd done every day since the accident. Kerrigen had turned her head a little, reaching out with her unbroken hand. She said one word:

  ‘Skaa-haa.’

  Then she was gone, the fire gone out of her eyes, gone from the world. And Skaaha ran.

  Someone had straightened Kerrigen. She lay on her back, arms at her sides. Slowly, Skaaha walked over until she felt the edge of the bed against her shins. She looked down, willing herself to be brave. Whoever had straightened the queen also closed her eyes. Skaaha knelt on the sheepskin rug, looking at her mother's beautiful face, framed by the long, braided black hair arranged over her shoulders. She looked real and alive enough, except for the grey pallor. The druids taught that death should be celebrated, but she couldn't. Her mother had wanted help. It was the last thing she asked. Skaaha, her daughter, the daughter she asked it from, had failed her.

  ‘I didn't know what to do,’ she whispered.

  Still not knowing what to do, she drew over the bowl of water she'd left there when she ran. Squeezing out the rag that floated in it, she began, gently, so as not to disturb its expression, to wash her dead mother's face.

  2

  For the last time, Skaaha stood on the walkway that topped the broch, looking across Ullinish to its twin ancestral cairns. At her back, the high thatched roof hid the funeral pyre being built by druids on the hilltop behind. Below, the stream flowed past the farm roundhouse and on towards the shore. Sun had chased the fog away, the blue sky clear of cloud. Seals hunted in the bay, diving, leaping, graceful in the water.

  The islanded loch of Bracadale spread before her, gateway to the ocean, one of many that formed the ragged coast on the Island of Wings. Like giant jaws open in a war cry, the northern peninsula swept round to flat-topped mountains. Along the south sweep, jagged black peaks ranged like broken teeth. Between those jaws, within easy running distance, several brochs towered above small settlements, a chain that snaked around the green contours of coastal land. The women who kept those brochs were all family, all her tribe. She should have run to one of them. Perhaps she still could.

  Jiya came up the stone stairs. The plumpest of the warriors, she was their dead queen's younger sister, Skaaha's aunt. Moonstruck and blessed with a wild, erratic humour, she'd vanished before the accident, going off to wander alone and crazed, as she often did, returning only last night in the fog. Her smile was back, the broad smile she wore to greet friends or when confronted by an enemy. It widened as she looked over the rim of the broch at the rocky ground below.

  ‘Leap only if you trust your wings,’ she said.

  ‘I don't trust,’ Skaaha muttered. ‘Not anything.’

  ‘This is good,’ Jiya approved. ‘You won't be easily fooled.’

  ‘Have you come to fool me?’

  Jiya chuckled, genuinely amused. ‘If I say no, maybe I'm fooling you. The only answer to trust would be yes. But would I answer that, if that was the answer?’

  ‘You talk like a druid.’

  ‘I talk like a warrior. Trust yourself, then you will also become a great warrior like me. Maybe like Kerrigen.’

  ‘Kerrigen's dead,’ Skaaha answered bleakly.

  ‘Only to us,’ Jiya said, ‘if you trust the druids.’ She gripped Skaaha's arm, eyes burning with sudden fire. ‘Don't be fooled. The blood is yours.’ Her words fell over each other. ‘It cries out your name. Listen to it. Listen!’

  All Skaaha heard was Kerrigen's voice, her mother's last word – Skaa-haa. ‘Stop it, Jiya,’ she said. ‘You weren't there, you don't know, and you're hurting me.’ Her aunt's fingers dug into her flesh.

  ‘I walked in darkness,’ Jiya babbled with the same urgency, ‘then I saw.’

  Skaaha wrested her arm free. ‘What did you see?’ It would be nonsense, spirit-talk that no one else could understand.

  The fierceness in her aunt's eyes dulled to puzzlement. She stepped back from the edge of the walkway. ‘One day you'll leap and let fate choose your future.’ Her smile returned. ‘Today, talk will do it. They're waiting for you downstairs.’

  So it was time, time for her life, and Eefay's, to be decided. Down in the great room shafts of sun scythed through opened skylights in the thatch, illuminating the central feast, making the surrounding gloom more oppressive. The headwomen of the tribe crowded the dim space. A few men-folk hurried in and out, bringing food and drink. Druids waited in small groups. Male and female turn about, they were the priests of Bride, keepers of custom, law and knowledge, advisors, seers and bards.

  Skaaha sat down on the goatskins in Kerrigen's place. It was expected. She was the queen's heir until the body was gone, but only till then. She was too young to take her mother's place for longer. When she looked up, she looked into the pale-blue eyes of Suli, the oldest, wisest druid of them all, seated opposite, flanked by Tosk, her mother's priest, and the beardless novice who'd given her cordial the night before. The high priest must have travelled during the night, through that fog. It was said she could see in the dark and needed no moon or star to light her way. It was also said she could see past and future, the hidden thoughts of others and the secrets in their hearts. Skaaha lowered her eyes.

  Mara sat down on her left, Jiya on her right. The other warriors divided themselves into the next five places on either side. Beyond them, completing the circle, the spaces filled with Eefay, her father, and the headwomen of the tribe: farmers, fishers, weavers, brewers, thatchers, potters and the smith. When all the shuffling and sorting was done, the chattering that accompanied it ceased.

  Skaaha reached forward to lift the ceremonial horn that sat, brimming, in its bronze stand in front of her. It was heavy, and needed two hands. To spill it meant bad luck. The liquid, sweet with honey, swallowed easily then glowed in her belly. It was mead, thick as the silence that had settled. Skaaha looked up again at Suli. The old woman's pale eyes were calm. Pass the cup, she said, her voice speaking clear and deep in Skaaha's head though Suli's lips did not move and no one else seemed to hear, though they waited for her to do just that: pass the cup.

  It should go to Mara. The horn, as with everything, must pass sunwise. But it was Kerrigen's cup she passed, the Honour of Doon Beck, title to the broch. In passing it, she transferred her home and, with it, leadership of Bracadale warriors. They had already chosen. That's why Mara sat next in line, ready to receive what she could never have won while Kerrigen lived.

  Skaaha's hands shook. The ornate glass insets dug into her fingers. A drop of mead spilled over the bronze rim. Her proud and generous mother was gone. Now, she gave up Ullinish, the life she and Eefay would have lived. The drip trickled towards her thumb. She wanted to pass the cup to Jiya, to prevent that loss, but
if her aunt took it, Mara would challenge her. There would be another death, Jiya's. Quickly, Skaaha licked the spillage with her tongue, turned and passed the horn into Mara's hands. A ripple of relaxation ran round the seated circle. The cup followed rapidly.

  When it finally reached Jiya, she drank and, as she returned it to Skaaha to replace in the bronze stand, whispered in the girl's ear. ‘You did right. Don't make it a habit.’ There was a laugh behind the words. ‘Wrong is more fun. I can take Mara.’

  ‘Let fate choose,’ Skaaha whispered back, ‘another day.’

  As the drinking horn slotted into its place, Suli spoke. ‘Now that our tongues are loosened, we are here to speak for Kerrigen of Danu, foster-daughter of Lethra, whose body cries out to be returned to the earth, to find homes for those of her flesh who live.’

  Skaaha stared down at the ceremonial horn, embarrassed. Under druid law, she should have been fostered to other kin before Eefay was born. Then she would have a foster-mother already, with a home that Eefay could join her in.

  ‘Kerrigen shunned our custom to raise both her daughters,’ Suli went on. ‘Now we see the error of that choice. So who among you will claim them?’

  The difficulty was obvious. Two thriving, healthy daughters was a great prize, but to claim it might incur Mara's displeasure. Whoever showed favour to her predecessor's children could find themselves outside her protection.

  ‘Doon Beck is their home,’ Mara said. ‘They can stay.’

  Shocked that she had spoken, Skaaha glanced up at the warrior's taut, expressionless face. Her frozen innards clenched. Mara had never borne or fostered a child. She tolerated Kerrigen's daughters, with bad grace, because she had no choice. Could she have changed? What would they become here, with her? Not warriors. Kerrigen had trained her daughters. Mara wouldn't. Women didn't learn from women. It was strange for her to offer them a home, strange and chilling. A blanket of silence spread. No one else spoke. Breathing seemed to stop. Beyond Mara, below the warriors, where Eefay sat with her father, there was the slightest movement.

  ‘I want to go with Donal,’ Eefay piped up, ‘and learn to be a warrior.’ Relieved cheers and clapping erupted. Glenelg was safely over the water, on the mainland. Eefay glowed in the approval. ‘And Skaaha can come too,’ she announced proudly. It was a good answer. More loud approbation followed.

  Beside Skaaha, Mara remained silent, though her breathing deepened to the rhythm used before battle. As the shouts of approval frittered away, Suli considered Kerrigen's elder daughter.

  ‘And what does Skaaha say?’ she prompted.

  ‘I don't want to be a warrior.’ Skaaha glared at Eefay. ‘Warriors die broken.’

  Everyone but Suli gasped. Nothing seemed to surprise the old woman. In the rising mutter of comment, Jiya chuckled at Skaaha's side.

  ‘Beautifully wrong,’ she snorted. ‘I love it. Tell them we should have beer.’

  ‘We should have beer,’ Skaaha said loudly.

  The potboy scurried to fill the waiting horns. There was some coming and going on the stairs, gossips rushing out, latecomers entering. Seated beside Suli, Tosk looked furious but, unless spoken to, he had no voice in this gathering. On the old woman's other side, the young druid who'd given birch cordial to Skaaha the night before lowered his head to hide a smile. Skaaha wondered why he was in the circle when more senior druids sat apart. But now she'd found her voice, she had other things to say and didn't wonder long.

  ‘Kerrigen won't go through fire into the earth or the water,’ she said. ‘She'll go to the sky, to the ancestors.’

  Beside her, Mara tensed. At her other side, Jiya whooped with joy.

  ‘That cannot be!’ Tosk couldn't contain himself. ‘It offends Bride. The corpse must be cleansed by her flames. This is not a matter for debate!’

  Suli ignored him, still unperturbed. Her concentration on Skaaha didn't alter. ‘Such things have not been done for longer than we remember,’ she said. ‘The way of the ancients is not our way.’

  ‘But it was Kerrigen's way, what she believed.’ The lump was back in Skaaha's throat. ‘My mother wasn't druid.’ Her eyes stung. ‘And you know how.’ The resolve in her voice wavered, uncertain now that no one spoke to support her. ‘You know everything.’

  ‘We know many things that should not be done.’

  There was movement behind Skaaha, from shadows near the doorway.

  ‘But you will do this one,’ a man's voice thundered across the room.

  Mara and Jiya, weaponless, grabbed eating knives and were half-way to their feet before Skaaha's head turned. The man who stepped into the shafts of sunlight was a stranger, broad-shouldered and muscular, with a gold torc round his throat. He wore the leather garb of a metalsmith, and was clearly a master of his craft, his travelling cloak pinned with an elaborately wrought gold and bronze brooch. The frisson of alarm in the room dissipated. Smiths were magicians who turned rock into tools, weapons and art. All warriors depended on them; their magic was second only to that of druids, next to whom their own smith sat.

  ‘You're welcome to speak, Ard,’ Suli said. She stood. The other women rose with her. In unison, they lifted the front of their skirts to the waist in a ceremonial gesture, asserting both domination and munificence in one swift flash of naked flesh. ‘We're pleased to see you,’ Suli continued, dropping her robes. ‘It's been many moons.’ Seats were retaken, leaving a space for the man between the warriors and the farmers, opposite Eefay and Donal.

  ‘It was that or have Kerrigen feed me to the eagles,’ he joked as he sat.

  ‘Piece by tiny piece,’ Mara muttered, settling back next Skaaha.

  ‘Now the sparks will fly,’ Jiya giggled, flopping down and reaching for beer.

  ‘Who is he?’ Skaaha hissed. Master-smith or not, men served women. They did not speak at council or give orders to druids.

  ‘Ard Greimme of Kylerhea, foster-son of Lethra, born of Suli.’ Jiya raised her drinking horn, eyes gleaming. ‘He's your father.’

  The interrupted discussion resumed. It seemed everyone now agreed with Skaaha that excarnation was Kerrigen's right. Their own smith smoothed the path. The tribe of Danu honoured the goddess, Bride, and respected druid law, she said. But Danu people also kept many older customs.

  ‘This is true,’ Mara agreed, glaring at Ard. ‘We've heard of new habits among tribes who sit to talk with men among their number.’

  ‘In equal numbers,’ Ard said smoothly, ‘as the druids teach.’

  ‘While the fires go out and wolves take the sheep?’ the farm-keeper asked.

  ‘Men can speak,’ Donal pointed out, though he had no right to.

  ‘A drum speaks,’ snapped the boat-keeper, ‘but it, too, is skin stretched over empty air!’

  Skaaha was entranced by Ard. She had a father. Kerrigen had never mentioned this. No one had. Yet here he was, and everyone seemed to know. He looked like her mother – dark hair, dark eyes, a strong forehead and straight nose. Like her, too, and not at all like Eefay, whose name meant beautiful, with the fair hair and green eyes of Donal. In the centre of the heavy weight of sorrow that filled Skaaha, a small, bright flame of joy began to burn. She had a father, just like Eefay, but hers worked the magic art and was not afraid to answer priest or warrior.

  ‘Kerrigen upheld the law,’ Ard was saying, ‘and valued druid knowledge, but she kept the ancient faith of our ancestors. The Islands of Bride were safe and prosperous while she lived. Now, in death, we should honour her, and not ourselves.’

  Suli nodded agreement. ‘You speak well, Ard, and wisely.’

  ‘For a man,’ Mara conceded, though her knuckles turned white.

  ‘We can take Kerrigen to sacred ground,’ Suli continued, ‘and offer her body to the sky, if it will have her, but we cannot open the mounds of the dead to make a place for her bones. That is forbidden.’ For the first time, she sounded stern and fierce, drawing a line the druids would stop anyone from crossing. The burial mounds of the ancestors dotted the la
ndscape but, while new settlements were built near by to benefit from the spiritual protection, they had all been sealed and filled with soil long ago. It was believed the Shee who inhabited them still walked the land. Although their name meant peace, no one risked disturbing them. ‘Forbidden,’ Suli repeated.

  ‘There will be no bones,’ Tosk said quietly.

  ‘And no one keeps my sister's head,’ Jiya insisted.

  ‘No.’ Tosk shook his own, his grey beard sweeping his knees. ‘There will be nothing to keep her here. Kerrigen will go’ – the briefest pause – ‘to the ancestors.’

  ‘Aye-yie-yaa!’ Skaaha exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

  Despite grumbles about profanity from priests outside the circle, there was agreement within it. Tosk, to whom the honour belonged, agreed magnanimously to conduct the disposal at High Sun. The mid-summer quarter-day marked the solstice, when the sun's slow fall into winter began, its ancient rites conducted now by druids. Joyful, the longest day also brought the sorrow of returning darkness. Kerrigen had picked a fitting time to die. Chatter began, with more to-ing and fro-ing to fill beer into horns. Again, it was Suli who brought attention back to their purpose.

  ‘Now that her mind is free of worry over her mother's remains, what does Skaaha say for herself?’

  When the rites were over, she couldn't stay in Doon Beck. Mara's offer was false. Kerrigen's daughter wouldn't live long under her roof. Jiya's arm pressed against hers. Was it a warning? Her aunt hadn't offered them a home with her, in Doon Mor with the warriors, to work in their household. The headwomen's familiar faces all turned towards her. Now that Suli made the choice hers and not theirs, she could go to any of their homes. None would refuse. Her future craft was determined by this choice – hunter, farmer, fisher, weaver, potter – but she would never feel safe in Mara's domain. Despite her aunt's boast, Jiya couldn't protect her.

  She glanced at her sister. Eefay's eyes pleaded, her hands clasped in hope. Please, please, please, she mouthed, begging silently. Donal would take them both to the mainland of Alba. They would learn the honour code and how to be protectors of their people, but she would always be second to Eefay, to her little sister who was Donal's child and had been their mother's favourite. Eefay, the fair, the beautiful one. Skaaha, the shadowy one – again. Even though she had rejected it earlier, that had been her best hope when she entered this gathering. Now, she had a better option.