The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  “Step aside,” he said. “I wish to hear for myself what Sólmundr has to say.”

  Embla gestured to Christopher and Wynter. “They must stay out,” she said.

  Razi froze her with a look. “I think not,” he said, and made his way around her and into the tent. Wynter and Christopher followed, ducking past Embla without meeting her eye, and passed into flickering torchlight.

  The tent was hot and airless. It smelled of sweat and vomit and seemed crowded with people despite its roomy interior. Sólmundr lay curled on a pallet of furs. His torso was bare, his covers pushed to his hips, and Wynter was appalled at the multitude of old lashmarks and scars that latticed his wiry body. Ashkr was hunched by his side, clutching his hand. He glared up at Úlfnaor, who was arguing with him in low and angry Merron. Behind the pallet crouched a sinewy, dark-eyed woman of about forty. She watched the two men with calm detachment, her hand on Sólmundr’s trembling back.

  That must be Hallvor, thought Wynter, eyeing the copper fire-basin and the herb pouches and vials at the woman’s side. The healer.

  At their entrance, Úlfnaor threw them an aggravated glare and turned away. He stalked to the rear of the tent and stood in the shadows, his arms folded defensively across his chest. Hallvor looked them up and down with no discernible emotion.

  Christopher and Wynter slunk around the edge of the tent, and stood side-by-side in the shadows. Razi paused by the door, gazing down on Sólmundr, his face unreadable. Wynter could not believe the difference in the poor man since the last time she had seen him. His good-natured face was transformed with agony, and he was curled into a tight ball, his fist pressed against his stomach. He was panting, and seemed incapable of containing the small sounds of pain that escaped him with every breath. Ashkr gestured Razi to his side.

  “Come!” he said. “Here, Tabiyb, come. Look at Sól.”

  Embla ducked into the tent and crossed to kneel beside Hallvor. She murmured a question, and the dark-haired woman shook her head hopelessly.

  “Tabiyb!” cried Ashkr. “Come here!” He slammed his fist into the ground by Sólmundr’s bed, and his friend leapt in shock. Ashkr turned back to him immediately. “Gabh mo leithscéal, a chroí! Shhhhh!” He placed his hand tenderly on Sólmundr’s head. Then he snarled over his shoulder. “Frith an Domhain, Tabiyb. Come here! Fix Sól, or I will take sword to your head!”

  Christopher pushed himself forward and Wynter saw his hand drop to his katar, just as she reached for her knife. She stepped from the shadows, her face hard. Ashkr should not have returned their weapons if he intended making threats.

  Ashkr saw them advance and held up a placating hand. “I speak from fear,” he rasped. “Fear make me stupid. I not hurt your friend.” He tried to swallow down his distress, and patted the furs. “Tabiyb,” he said. “You come help, yes? Come help, as good man you are.”

  Razi put out a hand and, without looking at them, pushed Wynter and Christopher back into the shadows. He glanced at Hallvor, then crossed to kneel by Sólmundr’s side. “Sólmundr,” he said. Sólmundr opened his eyes with a gasp and focused on Razi’s face. “Embla tells me that you do not want my assistance.”

  Sólmundr looked up at Ashkr. “Tá m’uain tagtha, a Ash. Tá an Domhan do m’iarraidh… tá… ugh …” he squeezed up in agony again.

  Razi looked around for Christopher. “What did he say? Christopher! Get over here; tell me what this man is saying.”

  Christopher limped across to kneel stiffly at the foot of Sólmundr’s bed. “He says it is his time. That An Domhan, The World, our… my people’s version of God, wants him.” Christopher sighed and ran a shaking hand over his white face. “He wants to die, Razi. There’s nothing you can do about that; it is Sólmundr’s right to choose.”

  Razi and Wynter both turned to gape at Christopher. He shrugged wearily at them. “They believe it is his right to choose,” he explained softly.

  Sólmundr whispered something in Merron. He pulled Ashkr’s clenched fist in against his chest, and for the first time Wynter noticed the slave mark branded into his upper arm. “I not need your help, Tabiyb,” he rasped, slitting his eyes to look at Razi. “I ready. It good that An Domhan call me. Now… of all times.”

  Ashkr crouched over Sólmundr, his hand moving lovingly through the poor man’s sweat-soaked hair. He murmured with persuasive intensity and bent to gaze into Sólmundr’s eyes. Sólmundr gazed back at him, his body trembling with pain, and Ashkr leant his forehead against his friend’s temple and whispered something pleading and heartbroken.

  Wynter looked at the men’s fiercely interlocked hands. She took in the grinding depth of Ashkr’s despair. She looked at the matching bracelets of plaited silver and copper that the men wore around their wrists, and with a spark of insight she touched the woollen bracelet on her own wrist. The nature of the men’s love for each other leapt into focus. Oh, she thought, Oh, I see. She frowned uncertainly, utterly thrown for a moment by the kind of men Ashkr and Sólmundr had turned out to be. But as Ashkr continued to whisper desperately to his friend, Wynter filled with sympathy for him and she found herself longing to take Christopher’s hand.

  “Chris?” she asked softly. “What is Ashkr saying?”

  Christopher translated in a low murmur. “You promised me, remember? You made a promise. Won’t you keep it for me? Now, of all times, could you leave me here to do this alone?”

  Suddenly Sólmundr’s eyes opened impossibly wide and he cried out, hunching over as if trying to roll to his knees. Ashkr turned to Razi, silently pleading with him to intervene.

  Razi leaned forward. “Sólmundr!” he said. “Will you not allow me to look at you? I swear to you, I shall do nothing without your permission, but please, at least allow me to look at you!”

  “Sólmundr!” Christopher clutched at the man’s foot through the furs. “If it is the will of An Domhan that you die, why would it have sent Tabiyb? Why would it have sent you a man who can do this?” he shoved his left sleeve up and thrust his arm forward, displaying his long scar. “It makes no sense, Sól,” he cried. “It makes no sense! Think for just a moment and you will see it.”

  Hallvor looked at Christopher’s arm and then at Razi, her dark eyes assessing. She leant forward and said something into Sólmundr’s ear, caressing his back with long soothing strokes. Sólmundr hid his face in the crook of Ashkr’s arm. Wynter was sure he would continue to refuse Razi’s help, but then he groaned something in Merron and nodded. Hallvor, Ashkr and Christopher looked to Razi, their faces full of hope.

  Immediately, Razi pushed the furs away from Sólmundr’s body. “Ashkr,” he said. “Get behind him, pull him up slightly and lean him back against you. Hallvor!” He looked the woman in the eye, tapped the fist that Sólmundr had clenched against his stomach and made a motion that Hallvor pull the man’s arm to one side. She did this. Sólmundr made a high, keening noise and tried to pull his knees up tight to his stomach. Razi glanced at Wynter. “Sis!” he said and she leapt forward to crouch by Christopher’s side. “Help Christopher. Pull gently to straighten Sólmundr’s legs. Embla, push down on his knees. Gently… gently now! That’s enough!”

  It took Razi only moments to finish his examination. Then he nodded at everyone to release the poor man’s arms and legs, and Sólmundr curled back up, rolling to his side. Hallvor pulled the furs back up to Sólmundr’s waist, and Ashkr sat and stroked his damp hair, gazing at Razi as if he held the world in his hands.

  Razi sat back on his heels and looked from face to expectant face. Wynter knew by his expression that the news was not good. She had very little Arabic, but she understood perfectly when Razi turned to Christopher with soft regret and murmured, “I cannot save this man.”

  Christopher tore his eyes from Sólmundr’s suffering. “This is what killed my father, Razi.”

  Wynter put her hand on his arm. “Oh Chris,” she whispered.

  Razi nodded miserably. “Aye,” he said, “I suspect it is.”

  “You told
me that you knew what caused this,” said Christopher. “You said you had cut into the human body and seen the canker that makes this happen.”

  Razi’s eyes widened in horror. “Aye, Chris, but in cadavers! Not in—”

  “You told me you had witnessed St James treat a man with this. You said he opened his belly and pulled out the canker.”

  “Chris!” pleaded Razi. “I also told you that man died. Victor could not save him, the shock was too great, the infection—”

  Christopher leant across and gripped Razi by the wrist. “You can try!” he insisted. “You can at least try.”

  Razi’s covered his friend’s hand with his own, clamping down hard. “Christopher,” he whispered. “I will not have these people take vengeance on us for a death that will occur anyway. If this man dies under my knife—”

  “Good Frith! We ain’t bloody animals! They ain’t going to kill you for an honest failure!” Christopher pulled his hand free and gestured to Sólmundr. “Don’t leave him like that, Razi. Don’t let him go out like… don’t let him go out like that.”

  Wynter rubbed her hand up and down Christopher’s arm and turned sympathetic eyes to Razi. Unable to comprehend the Southlandast, the Merron were quiet, their eyes hopping from man to man as they tried to interpret the tone of their conversation.

  “Chris,” said Razi softly. “Look at me.” He held his hands up. His fingers were trembling, his hands not just shaking, but weaving to and fro. “I will kill the poor fellow, Chris. I will kill him as sure as if I plunged my sword into his neck.”

  Christopher stared at Razi’s unsteady hands, then back to Razi’s soot-stained face. “I’ll tell them that,” he said. “I’ll tell them that you need to get some sleep. You take a draught, go to bed, forget everything till tomorrow. If An Domhan spares Sólmundr till then, you can save him when you wake up.”

  My God, thought Wynter, gazing at Razi. My God, what a burden.

  Razi blinked. “You will explain to them what it is I will need? You must translate everything precisely. I cannot afford misunderstandings.”

  All the tension flowed from Christopher’s body, and he squeezed Razi’s shoulder. Then he turned back to the expectant Merron and began to translate Razi’s instructions for the next day.

  A few hours later, with everything settled for the morning, Wynter ducked outside and breathed deep to clear the sick tent air from her lungs. Shivering and drawing her cloak around her, she gazed up at the stars. To her surprise, she felt the first sharp promise of autumn in the night air. Where would this winter find them, she wondered.

  Razi stumbled from the tent, knocking her shoulder as he followed Embla to their quarters. He was barely capable of putting one foot ahead of the other and didn’t seem to notice Wynter standing there.

  Christopher came up behind her and laid his hand on her back.

  “Come on, lass,” he said softly. “The lady has given up her tent to us.” Wynter leant her head back against his shoulder and closed her eyes. After the briefest of moments, Christopher kissed her hair, then broke away and the two of them trudged wearily after the others.

  The Healing Cut

  “Nil se réidh.”

  Christopher? thought Wynter, rising to the surface of a black sleep.

  Ashkr’s voice came through the darkness, insisting something in desperate Merron. “Tá sé beagnach ina mhaidin!”

  Christopher hissed some reply, his voice fierce and brittle. Wynter blinked away her tiredness and rolled to her side, peering through the tent flap to see the two men outlined against the flames of a huge fire. Christopher appeared to be wrapped in a cloak, or a fur, his shape obscured by its bulk. He stepped close to Ashkr and snarled up at the tall man, his pose belligerent.

  Whatever he said, Ashkr made a compulsive move towards him, his fist clenched and Christopher lifted his chin in defiance. Ashkr groaned and abruptly swung away, stalking off into the dark, his pale hair swinging behind him.

  Wynter sighed with relief and rolled onto her back. She still felt utterly drained, despite her deep sleep. “Jesu,” she whispered and pressed her fingers into her eyes. Sighing again, she stretched her limbs and revelled in the soft fur that swaddled her naked body. Her bed consisted of a base of fragrant pine boughs covered with hides and blanketed in fur. Wynter thought it the most comfortable and sweet-smelling nest she had ever slept in.

  The night before, she had mindlessly shed her filthy clothes and slipped beneath the covers before remembering that Christopher would be sharing her bed. She remembered staring into the dark, acutely aware of her own nakedness, both terrified and excited. She remembered thinking, I can imagine no better marriage bed than this. She had lain with her face to the wall of the tent, her heart hammering in her chest, waiting and waiting, and eventually she had fallen asleep. Now it was morning and, with a pang of regret, Wynter realised that Christopher had never joined her beneath the furs.

  On the far side of the tent, Razi gasped suddenly and sat bolt upright. He was silent for a moment, an indistinct shape in the dark, then he sighed and pushed the covers from his legs, sitting forward with his head in his hands. Wynter turned to squint at him. The night before, he, too, had stumbled into the tent and stripped himself naked, crawling wordlessly beneath the furs of Embla’s bed. In the end the poor man had not needed a draught to put him to sleep, he had been unconscious long before he’d even pulled his tunic over his head. Wynter did not think it possible that such a short sleep would have refreshed him enough for the task that lay before him.

  “Wynter?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “I am awake,” she said, watching his dark silhouette bend and stretch, as he gathered up his clothes.

  “Get ready,” he said. “It is time.”

  With a sigh, she reached for her things and began to dress under the cover of her blankets.

  “Where is Christopher?” whispered Razi, pulling on his trousers.

  “I’m here,” answered the young man, ducking into the tent. “It’s very early, are you sure you’re ready?”

  Razi glanced at him, the firelight catching his profile for a moment before the tent-flap dropped in place and cast its partial shadow. “How is Sólmundr?” he asked.

  “Hallvor has been giving him the tincture of opium all night, just as you asked. He’s much calmer.”

  Razi sighed and shook his head as he laced his boot. “It will not be enough to dull the pain of what is to come. I wish we could use those herbs she spoke of, and let him sleep through this ordeal.”

  “Aye, well. Hallvor is right, Razi, they would kill the poor fellow. Those herbs are too strong for someone as weakened as Sól.”

  Wynter looked at Christopher’s profile, outlined against the illuminated side of the tent, and saw a deep weariness in his posture. “You did not come to bed,” she said softly, trying to see his face.

  Razi paused in dressing himself and peered at his friend. “Have you slept at all, Christopher?”

  “I had a rest.”

  “I need you sharp, Chris. You know that.”

  “I’m sharp enough,” he said quietly. He put his wrap down on Wynter’s bed and she saw that it was one of the fur blankets that they would have shared. He must have taken it from their bed while she slept. “Everything you asked for has been done,” he said. “Are you ready?”

  Razi sat for a moment, looking at Christopher’s indistinct outline. Then he bent to pull on his other boot. “Is it morning?”

  “Very near to. You will have plenty of light by the time you are ready to start. They have moved Sólmundr to a narrow pallet, like you said, and opened the top of the tent to let in the light and the air.”

  “Very well,” said Razi. He got to his feet and took a deep breath, running his hands over his face and pushing his heavy curls back from his eyes. “Let us go,” he said and stalked out into the camp.

  As Razi had requested, Wynter and Christopher bound their hair tightly to their skulls and left off their tops. Wynter f
elt strange walking through the crowd of silent Merron wearing nothing but her britches and her breast cloth, but when she saw Hallvor waiting by the wash table, similarly attired, she breathed deeply, let it go and concentrated on the daunting task ahead.

  Razi immediately began scrubbing himself clean, soaping and rinsing his arms and chest many times before he was satisfied, cleaning his hands and nails with great care. Wynter and Christopher did the same, as did a bemused Hallvor. The Merron stood just outside the ring of bright firelight, watching every move as if it were a magic trick. Above the black shapes of the trees, the sky began to fill with rosy light.

  Wynter glanced up as Christopher bent his head to soap the back of his neck. She continued scrubbing her nails, but kept her eyes on him as he worked the soap across his shoulders and down his arms. He was covered in bruises and scrapes, every movement stiff. Wynter knew she must look very similar. Even now her body groaned in protest at every turn. Christopher began to soap his chest and under his arms. As he did so, he lifted his sleepless eyes and inadvertently looked into Wynter’s face. She dropped her gaze, and concentrated on scrubbing her hands. The loose ends of her woollen bracelet came untucked and they waved like seaweed in the soapy water.

  When she finally glanced back up, Christopher had turned away from her and was standing looking off into the trees, his dripping hands hanging loosely by his sides. The claw-marks on his back and shoulders were a savage contrast to his pale skin. Wynter stepped to his side, shaking her arms free of water. For a moment the two of them stood looking into the darkness beyond the firelight, saying nothing. Then dawn burst in sudden glory across the tops of the trees, spilling liquid gold against their wet bodies and cancelling the firelight in a mythical flood. Both Christopher and Wynter inhaled as one and closed their eyes, turning their faces instinctively to the sun.

  “Are we ready?” asked Razi. Everyone nodded and he jerked his chin at two men who were standing by the fire. At his signal they lifted the cauldron of boiling water that held his instruments and carried it after him into the tent where Sólmundr lay waiting.