Captive Heart

by Erin O'Quinn

  Making sure the two women were faring well, I rose and sought the small river that ran parallel to the high embankment where I liked to sit watching the shore. I did not expect Liam and the others back for several hours, so now I concentrated on washing myself in the little stream as best I could without removing my clothing. I sat afterward brushing my hair, even though in this place the wind tried to twist it into a wild dance. Persimmon walked to where I stood. “May I join you, Caylith?”

  I smiled up at her, happy to see her. “Of course. Sit here by me, and tell me how you think the women are faring.”

  She obligingly sat and studied the little stream. “On one hand, I am happy, Cay. They are not quite as weak as I had feared. Most of them. I make an exception with the woman you are caring for. She seems to be on the edge.”

  “It is possible that she was sick even when she was captured. And yet she has gotten better in a very short time,” I told her. “I think by tomorrow she may even be ready to eat solid food. But she still cannot sit up on her own.”

  “…And on the other hand,” she said, as though to pick up her earlier thought, “I am concerned for the mental strength of several of them. I think the healing process may not be as rapid as we may hope, even though their bodies may seem to heal quickly.”

  “We must show them that they are safe and that they are loved,” I told her. I realized as I said it that my fists were clenched, and my voice had become blurred with emotion. “Ah, I am sorry, Simmi. I do not mean to sound—”

  “To sound as though you care too much? Cay, that is why we love you so much. Never stop caring. We are all fortunate to have you.”

  I hurried to change the subject.

  “I have caught a whiff of something very foul, Persimmon. And that is the stench of the man who attends our own church, who pays for slaves. I think some of the women may have seen him, just like my mother did.”

  I told her what I had said to Brindl, and she readily agreed. “If there is a way to find and trap that man, I want to be part of it. I myself will talk to every woman.”

  Once again, as I had yesterday, I held my hand out to her. We clasped hands as though making a solemn pact. “What do you think, Simmi, about, ah, hiding the prisoners when they are brought back? I mean far from the eyes of our women.”

  “I agree. When we meet the men at the currachs, let us have a holding place already selected and a fire pit started. For they will have to be fed somehow, even though I am inclined to let them feel the same pangs suffered by their captives.”

  “They will never feel the same, my friend,” I told her. “Unless we can find a race of giant women who may hold their noses in disgust while they ravage their ugly butts with a—a battering ram, and starve them besides.”

  She laughed at my image of fair retribution. “The Lord will provide, Cay. The Lord will provide. And not with Amazons.”

  * * * *

  When our companions returned late that day, kicking and pushing their bound prisoners ahead of them through the rocks, a group of us had already prepared a kind of holding area for them, far from our fire haven, yet still close enough to the stream that our comrades could drink and bathe. The area was strewn with large boulders and enough smaller rocks that the slave traders could be tied securely without a tree in sight. The fire pit we had built, like the large one, was sheltered from the incessant wind.

  As soon as I greeted Liam, I saw that his former vigor and good humor had largely returned. It was as though his handling of the bound man in front of him had been a kind of release of his pent-up anger and guilt. “I will join ye at the fire haven, love,” he had told me. “As soon as our prisoners are well tended.”

  The man he pushed ahead of him could have been one of my own Saxons, if I were to judge merely by size and fairness of skin. The style of hair and beard, too, was similar to that favored by the Glaed Keepers—long beard and drooping mustaches that blended into the chin hair.

  But the resemblance ended there. This man wore a menacing scowl, and I could see rotted teeth as he opened his mouth, spitting curses at Liam from beard hair that was snarled and matted. His skin was somewhat scabby and not at all clean. I had guessed correctly when I told Persimmon that anyone approaching these brutes needed to hold their nose in disgust.

  I wondered again at the lack of tattoos or other markings on the skin of any of these men. The girl Windy, and even my own mother, had mentioned “blue skin.” That was a mystery I would soon unravel, I thought, as I watched the returning heroes goad and push their prisoners far from the sight of their previous victims.

  Leaving a four-Saxon guard, the returning men and the rest of the travelers sat around a giant fire that evening. Even the captive women gathered to share supper with us, and I saw a sign here and there of a smile, a returning touch.

  I sat close to Liam, unable to keep from touching his face, his chest, his legs, as though to reassure myself that he was still whole, still the same confident, strong warrior who had left yesterday.

  As if to reassure me, he touched me in return—my stomach, a light brush of my breasts—and I saw that his mouth held that small ironic twist that told me he was secretly amused. “Conas tá tú, a mo haisce?”

  “We are fine,” I told him, patting little Cuileann. “And we have missed you.” I raised my face and he bent to me, tenderly kissing my lips.

  “I want…your fullness,” he murmured. I did not know what he meant, but I smiled. I would promise this man anything he asked for.

  “Me friends!” I heard a loud, booming voice. “Who will tell the story? Who will speak of the taking of Tory?” It was Flann, crying out the time-honored exhortation for a story.

  “Let it be you, Flann,” I called. “Abair scéal!”

  He looked around at his companions. “Very well, As long as those whose eyes saw where I could not, they will stand and tell what their own eyes saw.”

  “Tá go maith,” said Thom somberly, and everyone laughed at his terse Gaelic.

  “We landed with much churning of waves and grinding of paddles against the rocks,” Flann began, and a hush settled down on the men and women assembled before the fire. I saw that the captive women, too, were straining forward, eager to hear every word—everyone except Gray-Eyes, who was not yet able to sit by herself. As if reading my mind, I saw Liam silently get up and go to her. He brought her to me, cradled in his arms, and I sat with her propped against my chest so that she could see and hear what Flann said.

  I stroked her hair as Flann spoke, hoping that his words would not alarm her. His eyes reached out and read mine, and I thought I saw him give me a reassuring nod before he took up his narrative again.

  “I am shamed to say that in all me long life, I ha’ never felt the joy of currach riding. But now I may say—let the fishermen take it, an’ welcome to it! The marines and Saxons landed their crafts as though they were no more than a child’s toy, an’ we moored them in a nearby gully, lashed down wi’ rocks.

  “We followed the lead of Danger Walker, of Silver Weaver an’ Black Knife, walking on our bellies, stopping often to raise our heads an’ smell the air. We smelled only bird plops an’ the sweetness of wet grass. No sentry was in sight, an’ we made our way to the edge of the far cliff on the other side of the little island.

  “The birds rose all around us, all a-flapping and crying, an’ I looked over the edge of the cliff. I lay smelling the rocks and seeing the little huts spread below and figures of men walking here an’ there.

  “The lead marines signaled to those who would go in search of the enemy’s currachs. Twelve men an’ women slid away, part of the rocks an’ the cliff face. They would meet the rest of us, thirteen strong, at the bottom, on the opposite side from us, an’ together we would form a great two-clawed weapon to seize the slave traders.”

  He stopped and looked around. “Let us hear from those who were in that second wing of attack.”

  Akantha stood, eager to extend the story. “I will begin. My colleag
ues and I melted into the rock, and indeed we did become part of the cliff face. The rising sun shone directly on us, making us even harder to see. Below, the half-naked freebooters were walking about as though with no purpose. Perhaps they were finishing their morning meal or indeed taking a piss. Who knows? But we could see that they were mindless of danger—unless they had left a more-alert group to guard their currachs.

  “When at last we reached the bottom of the cliff, we were perhaps fifty or sixty feet from their dwellings. We slipped from behind one rock to the next, gradually working our way toward the sound of the ocean. I remember looking back at the opposite cliff face, seeking our comrades, seeing nothing but birds landing and rising again, the natural rhythm of a rainless, windy morning.”

  She raised her eyes to the sky, as if seeing herself back on Tory at that moment. “Thankfully, the damned birds were squawking at regular intervals, going about their business of meal hunting and pooping. Our own activities meant nothing to them, and we spread out, looking for hidden currachs.” She sought out one of her colleagues from the crowd and motioned to him. “Falc, tell us what happened next.”

  Falcon rose slowly to his feet, and then he began to pace in a small circle before the fire. “I happened to be the one who first sighted the little craft, and that is why I tell this part of the tale. I signaled my comrades, and we approached cautiously.

  “No guard had been posted, and so we squatted around looking at them—four well-built vessels, their sails furled, moored like ours in a ravine not far from the edge of the water. The paddles were tied to the inside, and it took us only minutes to untie them and carry them thirty or so feet away. We heaped rocks over them so that none but we would easily find them.

  “When we made our way back to our spot behind the rocks, looking at the cluster of little buildings, I raised my hand until I saw each of my friends nod their heads. And then I called out as we had planned. Truly a lovesick corn crake, his voice blending with the cries of herring gulls and buntings.”

  “Aye, we heard ye loud an’ clear, lad,” said Flann, grinning. “An’ speaking for meself, that sound was enough to set me heart to rattling in me chest. We all looked to our marine leaders, and as soon as we saw them draw their weapons, me own long knife was in me hand, an’ I crouched, ready for the rush forward. Danger Walker, pick up the story, if ye please.”

  Thom rose then, his shyness forgotten as he recalled yesterday’s events. “We had already decided—as soon as Falcon’s signal sounded, we would rush forward, all of us at once, and disarm the enemy as best we could without dealing a mortal blow. We would have dealt with them in a few minutes if we had been allowed to skewer their vile throats, but we were resolved to be gentle as their very mothers.

  “With that tenderness in mind, we each found a man to attack, and we ran, silent as the wind, each of us locked into a target.

  “My quarry was not twice my size, but he seemed that large. I saw his eyes widen in disbelief as I ran up to him, and I could almost read their expression, This little man will be an easy kill. He raised one fist to deal me a blow, but my spatha was already at his throat. ‘Kneel, you bastard, or you are a dead man.’ I had forgotten that he would not understand a word of what I said. But yes, he understood me well enough.”

  Thom flushed a bit at his own rough language, but he continued “The brutes were large, but their very size rendered them somewhat clumsy and slow to act. Before they could run inside for their own weapons, they were on the ground, and we were tying them hand and foot.”

  Flann spoke again. “We left six guards over twelve trussed men. They were sorely outmanned, for we could ha’ left one man instead of six. And yet we did not want to overload the currachs, for we still had to gather the women an’ somehow get them to the currachs. Someone—I think it was Black Knife-—had the wise idea that the marines should return to our hidden currachs and sail them to this part of the island. From where we stood, it was an easy descent to the sea. An’ so we did.”

  Then it was Silver Weaver’s turn to speak. “The tale is ended. The slave traders were taken, and they await the retribution of the Lord himself. The task ahead is clear—to heal and to cherish the women they held.” His eyes, once clouded with the pain of what he had seen, seemed to clear somewhat, and I saw the beginnings of a small smile.

  “Welcome, ladies. We dedicate ourselves to your health and your happiness. From this time forward, I speak for myself when I say come to me if you need anything. Anything at all. And I will see that you receive it.”

  Then all my friends—everyone except for me—rose and cheered, echoing his sentiment. I would have stood also, but Gray-Eyes, leaning back against my chest, was too precious for me to disturb. And so I merely sat there, stroking her hair, thinking of Mama.

  Chapter 28:

  Tracks of a Bear

  That night, I lay with Liam on one side of me and Gray-Eyes and Windy on the other. The nearby fire crackled and rose to the clear sky overhead. We had found a large piece of clean linen, and we were using it not for warmth but for hiding our nakedness. I was tracing his mouth with my forefinger, delighting in his smooth skin and soft beard.

  I kept my voice very low, for fear of waking the women. “Liam, what is Gaelic for ‘gray eyes’?”

  “An’ that would be ‘súile liath,’” he said.

  “Soo-lah lee-ah. Very pretty, my love, like a song. I think I will call her Liath.”

  He caught my finger in his mouth and began to nuzzle and suck it in the way that sent little flames shooting through my stomach and thighs. “Yes,” I said, turning into his warm body, “like a song. Like your mouth. Póg dom, oh, kiss me.”

  Our mouths met as though for the first time. Our kiss was slow and full of wonder. I touched him, I inhaled him, I tasted him as though discovering him all over again. “Do not leave me again Liam,” I breathed in his ear, and I heard his soft laughter.

  His arm encircling my waist, he gently pulled me as far away as possible from the sleeping women. “Shush, shush, Cat. Do not wake the others. But give me your little fox, your little cat. Come here, I want ye.”

  We deliberately made love as slowly as we could without reaching a climax too soon, putting off the final rush of pleasure. Liam kissed and sucked my breasts, stroking them as he kissed, delighting in their new, heavy ripeness. And then his mouth found my stomach, his lips and tongue exploring every inch. As he licked and nuzzled me, suddenly I felt a most odd sensation—like the flutter of a giant butterfly—and I almost cried out. It was the child inside, clamoring to find room to grow.

  At last Liam rolled me so that his groin was against my buttocks, and we made love like young animals. When the tremors had ceased, he turned me back to face him, and we kissed again, long and lovingly. “Liam, the baby kicked,” I whispered.

  “He kicked? Let me listen. Let me feel it, too.” He slid down again and laid his head on my distended belly, tickling it with his downy beard. I lay as still as possible, wondering if she would talk to Liam, too. And then I felt it again—a small but insistent flicker or quiver inside, and Liam lifted his head in wonder. “He speaks!” He lay his head back down, waiting for the next words from his child. And that is where he fell asleep.

  * * * *

  The next several days were so filled with our care for the rescued women that they rolled by very quickly. I knew it would take us twice as long to return as it had taken us to travel here, and I was resigned to it. But now that the time had come, and I was busy making gruit and changing linens and feeding and bathing my wards, I found one day sliding into the next without my fretting about it at all. And every day as we traveled, I walked from one queen chair to another, watching the progress of our little group of travelers. Some of them were actually well enough to ride a packhorse, and a few of them rode two to a blanket, sitting and talking together.

  I noticed that all of them—except for Gray-Eyes, our Liath—had lost the vacant, numbed look they had arrived with. It was as though
they had been imbued with a new spirit, and I rejoiced to see it.

  Liath lay on one of the special chairs. At first I was surprised that one of her horses was ridden by Silver Weaver, in tandem with another marine, and both men had soon learned to keep their horse’s slow gait exactly the same. I walked along, leading Macha and reaching out one hand to stroke her hair as she rode, lying with her hands folded on her chest like an enchanted princess. Her eyes, as usual, were closed as though she were slumbering.

  “Cay, she is better,” said Weaver. “This morning, she tried to speak.”

  “Oh! That is wonderful. What was she trying to say?”

  He shook his head, and I saw how the long blond hair fell around his face, almost like a light golden halo. “I know not. Perhaps her name. Give it time.”

  Now four days into our trip, she had begun to take in food, and her gaunt cheeks had started to fill out just a bit. I saw under the pallor of her skin that she had a flawless complexion, not unlike Weaver’s, and that her mouth was large and well shaped. For the first time, I realized that here was a beautiful woman, made unsightly by sickness and mindless cruelty. I could not help thinking of what Owen had said about my mother—that she was “like a lily trodden into the roadside.”

  As I walked and talked with the freed women, I tried to sound them out about any man they might have seen who had visited the island. One of them, an older woman named Elain, was riding by herself on a slow-moving mare. I thought she might be about fifty years old, judging by the care lines and the streaks of gray in her dark brown hair. I liked the way her hairline started as a kind of peak, or triangle on her high forehead, and the lighter gray streaked backward over her darker hair.

  I walked near her horse and called out, “Good morning! How are you feeling?”

  “Well enough, miss, and I thank ye.”

  Her words held just an edge of an unfamiliar accent, similar to Wynn’s Welsh, and I asked her about her name.