The woman turned in the waves to see why the man was taking so long to catch her and saw he was drowning. She dived to rescue him but couldn't. He was down too deep and she, too, felt her lungs burn for breath. She looked into his dark, drowning eyes and knew she would lose him for ever, no matter what she did now, yet she loved him and couldn't let him drown. So she left him tangled in the weed and sinking, and swam for the shore faster than she had swum away from it. There, on a sand dune where she'd left it, lay her slick, smooth coat. Grabbing it, she ran back to the waves, pulled it on and plunged in. Now she was more at home in the water than the fish. Now she was master of the waves.
‘She's a selkie, a selkie,’ shouted the children, recognizing the mythical creature that could change from seal to human and back again.
And that's what she was, of course, and she reached the man just as his lungs gave up and drew deep for breath so the water flooded into them. But the selkie plunged straight at him, thrusting her silk nose hard into his middle so the water was forced back out of him again. With her sharp seal teeth, she caught hold of his tunic and rose fast, leaping out of the water, trailing the helpless, limp man with her as she soared through the air, spilling salty drops like a rainbow of beads in the arc she made. This time, when the man's lungs drew deep for breath, it was sweet salt air that filled them.
‘And he lived, he lived!’ yelled the adults.
And, indeed, he did. Tugging and tearing at his clothes, the selkie dragged the beautiful man up on to the beach, where she rolled him on his back and nudged him so he coughed up all the cauldrons of sea water he had swallowed. As he shook the water from his eyes, the man looked around for the woman who had saved him, but all he saw was a seal. He gazed in astonishment at the shredded rags he now wore that once had been his clothes. ‘Did you see a woman,’ he begged the seal, ‘a beautiful woman who swims like a fish and has hair that drifts like seaweed down her back? Where is she, where did she go?’
‘She's there, she's there,’ everybody shouted. ‘It's the seal. She's a selkie!’
But a seal cannot speak. And having put her seal coat on again, seven circles of the sun must pass before the selkie could take it off and be a woman again. All she could do was nudge the rescued man one last time, and with a sad look from her luminous dark eyes, she turned towards the sea and vanished into the waves.
‘And,’ Jiya finished, her own eyes glowing like the peats in the hearth, ‘if you would see the proof’ – she slapped Ard's chest with the back of her hand – ‘here is the man, and there’ – she pointed to the pile of rags in a basket by the door – ‘are his tattered clothes.’
‘Aye-yie-yaa!’ There was delighted applause, from the children for the nail-biting story complete with props to prove it, and from the adults for Jiya's aplomb in turning a source of discontent to advantage.
‘Bardic,’ a cracked old voice cackled. It was Lethra the crone, clan chief, head of the village and larder-keeper, whose people had come over from her house to hear the story. ‘You must stay with us through winter, when fine stories are most needed.’ She patted the warrior's shoulder as she shuffled past, going home to sleep.
Ard put his arm round Jiya, giving her a celebratory squeeze. ‘A brave lesson in storytelling,’ he said. ‘You did well.’
Erith glared at the pair of them. ‘And perhaps tomorrow,’ she snapped, ‘our guest will put her mind to the story of a selkie with needle and thread who can do the mending!’ Then she shooed Skaaha and the other children off to bed and got ready for her own, throwing Ard's clothes out of her chamber and calling for another of her husbands to come keep her warm.
‘Does that mean you're without a bed, beautiful man?’ Jiya breathed, nuzzling Ard's neck and nibbling his earlobe, ‘for I have a bed, over there.’ She nodded to the curtained guest chamber further round the room. ‘A bed sizeable enough for two, providing they lie close enough together.’
‘I can take Gern's bed,’ Ard answered, ‘now that he shares Erith's. I might be out of my depth in yours.’ But as he spoke, he had moved into her, not away, pushing aside the knot of hair against her neck and with his mouth kissing the hollow of the curve at the side of it, the point where she would aim a sword to kill a man, and with a kiss that was killing her.
‘Then I must help you ride the waves,’ she murmured, pressing her cheek against his dark head, her voice thick and heavy as the ocean pressing on its floor. They both rose together, holding close to each other as they moved to the curtained chamber on the farthest side of the room.
When first light woke Skaaha, she rose and went out to strip off and start her routine. Jiya hadn't risen yet. A boy, several seasons older than her, stood watching.
‘Will you show me how?’ he said.
‘How to take your night clothes off?’
He shook his head, flushing. ‘I can do that.’ To prove it, he did, revealing bony ribs and the skinny muscles of a youth. ‘How to jump and turn in the air,’ he explained. He raised his chin proudly. ‘I want to be a warrior.’
‘Then you're in the wrong place,’ Skaaha said, but she showed him how to stand, kicking his feet to the right space apart. ‘Now copy me.’ She did the moves slowly so he could follow, running through all the easy ones, which were about stretching and loosening up. He managed them easily enough, though she could see he was tense from trying too hard. ‘You would do the warrior steps well,’ she said. ‘They're about being fierce in battle. Look.’ She stood square, stuck her elbows out and pushed down with flattened palms on to nothing. ‘Push down,’ she told him. ‘Push down on to the anvil.’
‘It's over there,’ he said, pointing.
She shook her head. ‘No, it's where you think it is. Push down.’
And he did, and got it. The warrior steps were easy after that, the strong strides, the set arm movements. But the chill of the morning began to bite.
‘Now we must speed up,’ she said, and did three rolling somersaults over the grass then leapt up neatly to cartwheel back. ‘Together,’ she said, and went again. The boy started beside her, but his first roll went squint, and he flopped about as he landed. Skaaha cartwheeled back, showed him how to place hands and feet. ‘Think small,’ she said. ‘Think ball, then you will roll. It's up here.’ She tapped her head, and off they set again. This time was better. ‘Now you practise that, while I get on.’
‘But I want to leap and turn,’ the boy protested.
‘And break your neck?’
He shook his head, flushed and miserable again.
‘You can't learn everything in one morning,’ she said kindly. ‘When you can roll forward like a ball, and backwards just as well, and to one side or the other, then you'll begin to know how to fall. But only a fool leaps in the air without knowing how to come down, for down you will surely come, unless you have wings, of course.’
‘I don't, but I would like to have – invisible wings like yours.’
‘Then roll.’
He set off, inexpertly. Skaaha continued her routine. From the roundhouse, she heard Erith's angry voice, the sound of Ard trying to soothe. It must be their habit. Eventually, Jiya appeared. Grinning joyfully, the warrior glanced briefly at the boy who rolled around all elbows and knees and ankles, but said nothing. Stripping off, she warmed up vigorously. When breakfast was called, the three of them dashed into the sea. The few who watched controlled themselves this time, and went instead to eat.
6
After breakfast, when Jiya combed and re-plaited Skaaha's hair, the warrior worked quickly, her mind elsewhere. The girl, stoical as ever, gritted her teeth rather than yelp when tugs were harshly yanked out. None of the usual banter passed between them, though Jiya chuckled often, deep in her throat, and wouldn't say what amused her. Erith glared, drawing them dark looks. Skaaha was sure they finished sooner than usual, but by the time she'd redone the warrior's braids, Ard was already gone to the forge. Outside, it was Ruan who waited, leaning on a long staff twice the length of the carved rods
druids usually walked with, a staff like Suli's.
‘I'll come with you today,’ he said, slipping the bag Ard had given him over Skaaha's head.
‘I don't want a druid for company,’ she said, pulling the bag into place. His eyes were a disturbing blue. They watched her always. She was aware of that and didn't like it, but it was bearable while he kept his distance. ‘What do you know of iron-hunting?’
‘You can test me,’ he suggested, and when she frowned, added, ‘Look, where you go, I will go. You're my charge. That's the way things are.’
Skaaha ignored him. ‘Come with me, Jiya,’ she said. ‘Then I don't have to listen to druid lessons all day.’
Jiya declined. ‘I'm going to hug my happiness,’ she grinned, ‘before it's taken away.’ She strode off towards the beach.
‘What does that mean,’ Skaaha demanded, ‘and where's she going?’
‘That's for Jiya to know,’ Ruan said. ‘It's enough you should know where you're going.’
Skaaha glanced skyward, snorted and set off, following the river up the valley. Ruan kept pace with her, chatting about the forge and her place in it.
‘I'm not druid,’ she interrupted. Like Kerrigen, she kept the old faith.
‘No.’
‘I'll never be druid.’
‘No?’
Skaaha shut her ears, there was no point, and watched golden eagles hover above the hills. Every now and then, one would plummet to the ground. Her heart swooped too, experiencing with the dive a frisson of fear that it might not pull up, but they always did and rose again, usually with a rabbit clutched in their claws.
Eventually, the priest stopped talking. Earth-song took over. The river gargled over rock. A breeze whispered through reeds and treetops. Birds chirruped, warbled and twittered. From hill pastures, sheep bleated, quavering against the deeper lowing of cattle. Skaaha walked on beyond the peat-cutters, beyond the spring of yesterday, looking for a place of her own to harvest, one that would yield much more. Though she wanted the priest to feel superfluous, she also wanted to impress.
The riverbank grew rockier and drier as they climbed. It began to seem she'd been too clever and might look a fool instead when they rounded a bend and there, spread out, was a curved wetland valley. Spotting the telltale orange crust around the reeds, Skaaha bent to tie her skirts up. Ruan slung his staff on his back and copied by pulling his robe up through the cord at his waist so it hung just above his knees.
‘Do you think Thum will make a warrior?’ he asked.
Skaaha stopped tying and stared up at him. ‘Who's Thum?’
‘The boy you were teaching this morning.’
‘Why should I care?’
‘Because you're a good teacher.’ That it was the first response he'd had since they left the settlement hung unsaid. ‘Patient.’
Skaaha shrugged. ‘He works in the forge.’
‘The smelter, and isn't happy there.’
She considered. ‘He's gangly.’
‘But won't always be.’
‘And old to be starting.’
‘But not much, four seasons more than most. It was different for you.’
Different, right enough. She had played at warriors' feet since she could crawl, copying their routines since she could stand. The druid didn't sound disapproving, though he must be. Kerrigen taught her what she knew. Rau… rau… Yip… yip… yip… Above, a white-tail barked on its way to the sea. Skaaha stepped into the chilly water.
‘If Thum truly wants to be a warrior,’ she concluded, ‘then he will be.’ Sliding each foot turn by turn along the marsh bottom to avoid the danger of a pothole, she decided to work around the edges, leaving the deeper water for the priest. He seemed to know fine what was iron and what was stone.
They worked for some time, the sun half-way to noon before Skaaha felt her back begin to object to constant stooping, her bag heavy. She'd made a good choice. This bog had not been harvested for a long time. She was a quarter-way round it, on the furthest side, the water growing deeper with every step, and stopped to push her sleeves up further. Her foot slipped, a sludgy pothole sucking her suddenly down.
Unaware that she yelled, she clawed for a handhold in the reeds, floundering for anything in the silt that would give her purchase. As her weight drew her deeper down, she threw her arms over a hummock, grasped the blind side of it and pulled. Among the mosses, a thick strand of root gave her something to grip. She wound her hand around it and, with her other hand gripping sharp blades of marsh reeds, dragged her chest up on to the clump. As she rose, something reared from the other side of the hummock to look at her – a hooded thatch of muddied hair, leather-brown skin, wicked eyes, crook nose, a mouth curved in a warped leer. A drum battered in her chest, thundered in her ears. Just as she recognized the face that loomed into hers was human, a hand swung up, fingers reaching for her.
‘Aaaaaargh!’ she screamed, jerking back as it lurched towards her. ‘Aaaaargh!’ She stumbled sideways. The face swung closer, leering into hers. ‘Aaaaargh!’
‘Let go the rope,’ Ruan shouted, splashing through the bog. ‘Skaaha, let go the rope!’
Rope, what rope? Wild with terror, she looked at the root she had wrapped round her hand. It was rope! Frantically, she pushed it off her fingers. The reaching hand of the bog creature swung backwards, its shoulders slipped below the water, the face sank back – and Ruan was pulling her out of the bog, out of the water, to the firm dry grass at the edge. Shaking, whimpering, she clung to him, looking past his shoulder in case the monstrous thing would rise again and run at them.
‘It's all right,’ Ruan was saying, holding and rocking her. ‘It's all right.’
There was nothing, a bubble, a ripple or two, the marsh undisturbed.
‘Was that the Shee?’ She shuddered, still watching. ‘Is it coming again?’
‘No. You disturbed a sleeper, that's all.’
‘A sleeper? It was somebody,’ she squealed. ‘What are they doing sleeping in the bog? It was coming for me!’ She was losing it again, arms round his neck, clambering higher into his living warmth.
‘Hush, no. It's dead and can't harm you.’ He stood, lifting her with him, and carried her away up the slope to a rocky outcrop where a stream of clear water trickled down. Once there, he sat, still holding her, for there was no way she would loosen the grip of her hands round his neck, and began to wash her face, throat, legs and feet with the cold, fresh water. ‘Fool that I am,’ he muttered as he cleaned her. ‘I should have thought.’
‘You knew that was there?’ Anger rose easily on the back of fear.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘But I might have guessed. Look.’ He pointed up the hill to the mountain path where a great boulder marked the boundary between the ironworkers' land and the next tribe's. ‘Sleepers are put in bogs on the edges of clan land, as far away as possible without trespassing on another's land. They're bad people who were killed three times, mind, body and spirit, so their soul is trapped.’
‘Is that why he – she – had a rope round its neck?’ She was calmer now, a dead stranger less alarming than incomprehensible monsters. But she kept her head turned to keep an eye on the bog, just in case. Ruan unwound her arms from his neck, bending her closer to the stream to clean her hands.
‘The rope has many purposes,’ he said. ‘It's left on to lower them in, and so anyone who finds them will know. Even to pull them up, if need be.’
A shiver ran through her. She didn't even want to know why anyone would pull them up on purpose.
‘Come,’ he said, taking her bag and holding out his hand. ‘We'll go back home, get you changed. I think you've learned enough about iron for today.’
They wound their way back down the hill, returning to the riverside well below the marsh. With a safe distance between it and them, Skaaha ran ahead, did a few confident cartwheels then paused, waiting for the druid to catch up.
‘If it was tied to a tree up on the path,’ she said, ‘that would warn othe
r bad people to stay away. Not many folk come visiting through the bog.’
‘That's my little warrior,’ he said. ‘But it wouldn't be a sleeper out of the bog. Its flesh would rot and its spirit pass to the otherworld, to do harm there.’
‘So it's trapped for ever and will still be there when you're old and grey?’
‘Yes, when you are too.’
‘I'll never be old,’ she grinned, and turned a few more cartwheels to prove it. Returning to reclaim her bag, she studied the priest. ‘When I make the sacrifice, Kerrigen's spirit will waken in the afterlife,’ she said, ‘and watch over us again.’
‘As you believe,’ he said, tapping his steps with the staff, ‘so it will be.’
‘But you don't believe it.’ She frowned. Druids usually ignored anything said about ancient beliefs. Without nourishment, the faith of their forebears shrivelled to a stump. ‘Shouldn't you tell me I'm wrong?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I trust the nature of things. And no, beliefs can't be wrong. They're stories we use to explain the world, to help us understand ourselves. Every story has its own truth, and truth is always right, never wrong.’
His answer was unexpected, and puzzling, but she understood what stories were.
‘I have a story now,’ she exclaimed, beaming.
‘You have, indeed,’ he agreed. ‘A good one, if it's well told.’
She skipped on ahead, eager for home. Tonight, in the safety and warmth of the roundhouse, she would be the storyteller – one who awakened a sleeper in the bog, who outran it, out-jumped it, and who led it around by its rope, dancing in tumbling circles till the monster tired and could be slipped safely back into the mire. Jiya would be surprised and proud. Erith would see she wasn't just a burden.
Running down the slope into the village, she couldn't see Jiya, and called her. ‘Jiya!’ Her voice echoed, unanswered by her aunt's cheerful bellow. In the forge, the smiths were still busy, but not with Jiya. Ard shrugged, his mind on other matters.
‘She'll come back when she's ready.’ He took Skaaha's bag, weighed it in his hand, impressed. ‘You did well.’
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