The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  “Croch leat!” he snarled, recklessly punching the dog’s huge head with his fist. “Croch leat, a bhoid clamhach.”

  The dogs growled, and to Wynter’s alarm, Christopher lashed out at them with the copper bowl. Any fool could have sensed the huge creatures’ rising antagonism, but Christopher seemed to have lost all common sense, and he raised the bowl again, yelling.

  “Christopher,” she warned, eyeing the flashing teeth and stiffly raised hackles. “Stop it!”

  Christopher pushed her roughly behind him. “Úlfnaor!” he shouted, glaring up towards the camp. “Curb your damned hounds!” It was only then that Wynter noticed the big man walking towards them, his black hair lifting in the breeze, his bracelets flashing as he strode across the grass. “Curb your hounds, Aoire!” demanded Christopher in Hadrish. “They are trying my patience!”

  Úlfnaor seemed to take no offence at Christopher’s tone, his face and posture those of a man with other things on his mind. He whistled as he strode towards them and his hounds broke away immediately, galloping towards him with loose limbed, slavering worship, and falling into place at his heel.

  “Coinín,” he said, “I was looking for you.” He nodded politely to Wynter and she bobbed her head, her eyes sliding to the hounds. Úlfnaor glanced down at them, “Suígí síos,” he murmured.

  The great dogs sat immediately, and Úlfnaor fondled their ears, his many rings gleaming in the sun. Wynter thought there was an air of heavy sadness to the man, a sense of invisible weight pressing him down. He sighed and turned his attention to Christopher once more, a question on his lips, but then faltered and stared, noticing the young man’s ragged state. His dark eyes flicked to take in Wynter’s equally frayed condition.

  “Frith an Domhain,” he said. “You are used up, you both. Why you not rest?”

  Christopher clutched the basin and towels to his naked chest, swaying and glaring belligerently from swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

  “Thank you for your consideration, Lord Úlfnaor,” said Wynter, tearing her eyes from Christopher’s grim face. “We are on our way now to lay down for a while in the shade.”

  “Good,” said Úlfnaor, eyeing them both with concern. “Good. Coinín,” he said, “the Caoirigh would like you and your family to join them at evening. We dine in Ashkr’s tent and—”

  “No,” snapped Christopher. “We cannot stay.”

  To Wynter’s alarm, Úlfnaor’s dark eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened in disapproval. She went to apologise for Christopher’s abrupt rejection of the Lord’s hospitality, but Christopher cut her off, his voice hard.

  “Ashkr has told us that he will go no further than here, Aoire,” he said.

  Úlfnaor’s face cleared in understanding. “Ah,” he said.

  “It is not possible,” continued Christopher, “that we would impose on your time.”

  “Ah,” said Úlfnaor again. “I see.” He glanced at Wynter. “There is not understanding for our ways, here, I take it?” he said.

  “None,” said Christopher, “from any quarter.”

  Úlfnaor’s eyes hardened at that, and he lifted his chin to look Christopher in the face. “Well, Coinín Garron. You are indeed your father’s son, nach ea?”

  Christopher just glared.

  Úlfnaor shook his head, as one would to a small, belligerent child. “It just an invitation to dinner, Coinín. Nothing more. In respect for Sólmundr, we do nothing today but declare Frith. At least take tonight to recover your health, eh? Give your family time to rest?” The dark eyes slid to Wynter again. “Your croí-eile is much worn, Coinín, nach bhfuil? You not want to bring her back into the wilderness so soon.”

  Christopher glanced at Wynter, standing bruised and exhausted by his side, and all the hard certainty left his eyes. Úlfnaor regarded him carefully.

  “Coinín,” he said softly, “Wari tell me that Tabiyb, he not wanted to come treat Sól. He tell me that it you who make him agree. I want thank you for this.”

  Christopher stayed silent, his hair blowing over his face in the breeze.

  “I admit, I not wanted Tabiyb come,” said Úlfnaor. “I thinked it wrong, not respecting to Sól’s choice. But I am glad that Tabiyb take Sól’s pain, and now I praise An Domhan for his arrival. An Domhan has made good choice to bring you here.” Úlfnaor looked into Christopher’s eyes. “Maybe for both The People and for you?”

  Christopher’s face creased in weary confusion at that and Wynter felt a little prickle of unease.

  “Life away from The People has not been kind to you, Coinín,” murmured Úlfnaor. He glanced at Christopher’s ruined hands, at the claw-marks where his bracelets should be, at his worn face. “Just like it not kind for your father.” Christopher raised his chin, his eyes over-bright, his mouth unsteady, and Úlfnaor smiled sympathetically. “We Merron not do well away from our kind,” he said.

  Wynter frowned, angry at the tension she felt returning to Christopher’s body. She slipped her arm around his waist and glared at Úlfnaor. She could not figure out his intentions. He seemed genuinely compassionate, but Christopher was clearly unhappy and Wynter couldn’t help wishing that the Aoire would just go away.

  “It bad you stolen away, Coinín,” continued Úlfnaor gently. “But now, you come home, just like Sól come home. After much years, after much distances, An Domhan has bring you back. This is good, that you come to us from nowhere and give us what we needs, when we needs it. This is auspicious.” At Christopher’s continued silence, Úlfnaor sighed. “The Caoirigh think this is auspicious,” he said softly, as if that might mean more to Christopher than just his opinion alone. “And your Tabiyb? The Caoirigh think he good luck, a good omen.”

  “He’s not,” rasped Christopher suddenly, his bloodshot eyes glittering. “He’s not good luck. Don’t say that.”

  Úlfnaor spread his hands. “But the Caoirigh say it. You and me, we never know the things they know.” He shrugged as if to say what can you do? Then he waved the whole thing off with a sigh. “You should to lie down, Coinín. Make your mind clear. I will to see you in Ashkr’s tent for dinner.” He smiled at Wynter, ignoring her glare. “You rest well, a luichín,” he said with genuine tenderness. His eyes flicked to her bound hair. “But,” he tapped his head to show what he meant, “you unbind your hair now, yes? And show respect.” Then he turned away, his hounds following him, and made his way back across the grass.

  Wynter squeezed Christopher’s waist and they stood watching as the big man passed amongst the horses and back into the camp. It seemed very quiet in his absence, the sounds of the horses soothing, the breeze from the river sweet.

  “I am tired, girly,” said Christopher suddenly. “I… I’m confused.” He blinked around him in bewilderment, finally at the end of his tether.

  “Can you make it back to the tent?” she whispered.

  Christopher frowned as if not sure, and pushed his hair behind his ear, scanning the horses with unfocused anxiety. Wynter squeezed him tight. “Come on,” she said gently. “Let us go lie down.”

  Embla’s hounds were lolling at the door to the tent, and Wynter found herself slowing to a crawl, embarrassed at the thought of what might still be in progress within the painted walls. She had no desire to interrupt Razi and Embla if they were concluding the business they’d started at the wash table.

  “Um …” she said, eyeing the sprawling dogs. “Christopher. I wonder if …”

  Thankfully, the tall blonde woman chose that moment to duck from the tent, and Wynter breathed a sigh of relief. Embla noticed them and waved her hand in greeting.

  “How do, lady?” said Wynter, “How does the noon find you?” She released her grip on Christopher’s waist and bent to set the tray by the door of the tent. Embla’s hounds leapt to their feet, and Wynter skipped warily back as the enormous creatures buffeted each other, vying to snuffle at the empty porridge bowls. Wynter tore her eyes from them just in time to grab for Christopher who was shuffling for the door, completely oblivio
us to Embla’s presence.

  “Chris!” cried Wynter, snagging the waist of his britches. “Wait!” He turned a blank face to her, and then looked up at the smiling woman who was blocking his way.

  “Well,” he breathed, his grey eyes questioning. “What…?” A frown grew between Christopher’s eyebrows. He looked Embla up and down and flicked a glance into the tent. “What…?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  Wynter glanced away, her cheeks burning. Embla was perfectly dressed, her jewellery and hair in place. But her mouth was rubbed and swollen looking, her skin dewy, and there was a richness to her, a languid air of completion, that was hard to misinterpret.

  “Coinín is going to lie down for a while, lady,” said Wynter, her eyes averted. “And Úlfnaor has invited us for an evening dinner in Ashkr’s tent. Perhaps we shall meet you there?”

  Embla touched her gently on her shoulder and Wynter looked up into kind eyes. “Tabiyb sleeps,” said the lady, and somehow that simple phrase took all the awkwardness from the situation. Wynter nodded gratefully To her surprise, Embla reached and pressed her fingers to Wynter’s forehead. You have been hurt, Iseult,” she said. Her hand was very cool and soothing against Wynter’s bruised skin.

  Wynter closed her eyes at the lady’s gentle touch and then shook herself. “It’s nothing,” she said, covering her forehead with her hand. “Chris… Coinín saved me before they could do any real harm.”

  Embla turned to Christopher, who was supporting himself against the side of the tent, watching her with frowning resentment. “Coinín,” she said, reaching as if to touch him. He glared, and the pale hand dropped. “You should to sleep now, yes?” she said softly. “You and your croí-eile. You should both to sleep.” She looked him up and down, her face tender. “You are safe here, Coinín. You not to have worry; the People will to watch over you now.”

  At her unrelenting kindness, Christopher’s resentment crumbled and he just looked at her in unhappy confusion. After a moment, Embla sighed and nodded in understanding. “I see you this evening, yes? For meal? And Tabiyb, he has agreed to declare Frith with us.” Christopher closed his eyes in distress at this news, but Embla smiled, looking out over the camp, her face serene. “This make me very glad. You too, Iseult,” she said, nodding to Wynter. “You too declare Frith. All of Tabiyb’s family. It be very good. Good omen, yes?”

  Wynter swallowed nervously and nodded, deeply uncertain. Embla left with a little bow, and Wynter and Christopher ducked out of the sunshine into the tent.

  * * *

  Inside was stifling. It felt steamy and too close; just stepping inside the door was enough to inspire a headache. Christopher stumbled to one of the rear poles. He unhooked something from a keep, and Wynter saw that it was a long, narrow dowel that stretched up into the dim shadows of the roof. Christopher spun the dowel between his hands. Something tightened in the upper reaches of the tent, and, high above them, three little flaps opened outwards, letting in some filtered sunlight and a surprising amount of fresh air.

  “Oh, Christopher!” sighed Wynter, turning her face to the gentle draught. “That’s lovely!”

  Christopher smiled, her delight warming his unhappy face. He hooked the dowel back into position and staggered to their bed. Crawling across the furs, he lay down with a hiss.

  Wynter glanced at Embla’s bed. Razi was fast asleep, lost amongst the tumbled furs, his face turned to the wall. He was nothing but a long expanse of brown back, gently breathing in the dim shadows.

  “Girly?” Christopher asked, suddenly panicked. “Where is Razi?” Wynter smiled at him, not really surprised. He was thoroughly addled with fatigue.

  “He is right here, Christopher,” she said, gesturing to Embla’s bed. “He is asleep.”

  “Oh,” he whispered, dropping his head back. “Oh, that is good.”

  His eyes slipped closed for a moment, then rolled opened again, roaming the ceiling. “If she comes back looking for him,” he said, “you tell her he’s busy. Raz… he wouldn’t understand her intentions.”

  Wynter chuckled. She thought Razi and Embla had a pretty good grasp of each other’s intentions. “Razi is not a child, Christopher. And I had not thought of you as a prude!”

  “He ain’t Merron,” he said softly. “And Embla is Caora Beo. Razi would never understand her.”

  “You think he will fall too hard,” she whispered. “You fear for his heart?” Christopher didn’t answer and Wynter crawled across the furs to him. “Razi is a grown man, Christopher. He knows his own mind.”

  Christopher lay on his back looking up at the ceiling, and Wynter settled onto her side, watching him, her arm beneath her cheek. The air filtering down from the roof was delicious, a cool silk running across their heated bodies, and they lay quietly for the moment, revelling in its touch.

  “I never thought I would lie in a puballmór again,” said Christopher, inhaling deeply and briefly closing his bloodshot eyes. He put his arms over his head, stretching out against the furs, releasing the scent of pine from the boughs beneath them. “That smell,” he murmured. “I missed it.” He relaxed, his arms curled loosely on either side of his head, his hair fanned out beneath him like black wings. Wynter expected him to drop off to sleep immediately, but he lay awake, his eyes roaming the walls of the tent. There were symbols painted on the outside and they showed up in red silhouette as the sun shone through the hide, moving gently with the breeze. “My father’s puballmór was painted all over with snakes,” he said, lifting his hand to trace the outline of a bear. “The day the tribe adopted me and named me Coinín, he painted a rabbit on each wall, to show that I was one of them.” Christopher’s eyes glittered and he abruptly splayed his hand against the wall, a dim, misshapen star at the centre of the bear’s great chest. “Dad …” he whispered.

  Wynter reached to stroke the smooth plane of Christopher’s stomach. She meant only to comfort him, but at her touch, Christopher snarled and knocked her hand away, his face dark with threat.

  Wynter recoiled, and for a moment, Christopher lay frozen, horrified at what he’d done. Then he took her hand. Carefully, he pressed Wynter’s palm back down onto his stomach and lay back against the furs, staring blindly at the roof.

  They stayed like that for a long moment, Wynter with her arm stretched awkwardly between them, Christopher holding her hand down against his skin. Then he took a deep breath, blinked the shivering brightness from his eyes and said, “You shouldn’t startle me, lass. I ain’t got much of a grip on myself at the moment.”

  “Have you a pain?” she whispered. “Do you need Razi?”

  Christopher shook his head, his eyes fixed on the roof. “You just startled me,” he said.

  Wynter gazed down into his rigid, staring face and did not believe him. He had been hurt somewhere, by those men—in his gut perhaps—and he would not tell her. I will make sure that Razi examines you, she decided. Pride or no pride, I will insist that you agree to it. “Will you not sleep?” she asked softly. Christopher shook his head, his fingers tightening desperately against hers, and she decided to leave it for now.

  She subsided beside him, and slowly the tension left Christopher’s body. He kept his hand firmly over hers and she did not try and caress him again, just let her hand rest against the warm skin of his stomach, feeling his breathing slowing, watching his face relax. Gradually Christopher’s hand loosened its grip.

  “Christopher?” Wynter asked softly. “What is Frith? I thought it was your God. But that is not the case, is it?”

  He shook his head.

  “This ceremony, the ceremony of Frith… will it be very bad?”

  She had in mind all she’d ever heard about pagans—torture, blood sacrifice, ritual copulation, and it frightened her. She was uncertain what herself and Razi might be expected to do. But, to her surprise, Christopher smiled gently up at the light. He drew her palm to the centre of his chest where she could feel his heart beating. “Oh no, lass,” he breathed. “It’s a lovely ceremo
ny. I always loved it.”

  “Oh!” Wynter was amazed, after his reticence with Úlfnaor, to see such wistful pleasure on Christopher’s face.

  “Frith,” he whispered, “Frith is lots of things. Community, common purpose, safety. It’s… it’s hard to explain.” Christopher went silent. When he spoke again his voice was heavy and slow, his face solemn. “When we declare a place Frith, we are claiming that place for all the People. We are making it common property, a safe and sacred site for all the tribes. We do it for our shared campsites. For our meeting places. For holy ground. Anywhere the People gather without conflict.”

  Wynter was alarmed to see Christopher’s eyes well up. A tear flashed bright and rolled past the slope of his cheekbone, disappearing into the shadows of his neck. “It lets An Domhan know we mean no harm,” he whispered. “It means protection. It keeps us safe.” He squeezed her hand briefly and closed his eyes.

  But that sounds good, thought Wynter. That sounds beautiful.

  “Why are you crying, Christopher?” she asked, not wanting to shame him, needing to know.

  Christopher shook his head vehemently. No, his face said, don’t ask me.

  “It sounds lovely, this Frith. It sounds good.”

  “It is,” he said, “Iseult, it really is. You have to believe me.”

  “Why then, do you want us to leave? When these people can look after us? They would protect us, wouldn’t they? They would look after us. If we asked?”

  He nodded. Yes, they would.

  He knows, she thought. He knows his people have no chance of settling here. It distresses him, perhaps, that they are misled, and that we must make use of them to get to Albi. He wants no part of this, playing one loyalty against another. She frowned in sympathy and settled her head against the furs. But who is to say what the future holds for them? she thought. Who can tell what accommodations may be made, once we reach Alberon’s camp? There may be room for everyone here, after all?