The Good Hawk

by Joseph Elliott

  And Aileen.

  Aileen, who I saw through the spyglass, struggling against a deamhan. He had a tight grip on her upper arm and was forcing her onto a boat. She tried to pull away from him, so he pushed her, hard. She fell backward into the boat. The deamhan laughed.

  She’s alive. She’s alive. I have to keep reminding myself that that is much better than the alternative. And they’ll keep her that way. It’s what the deamhain do: kill enough people to force a surrender and then take the survivors back to their homeland to use them as slaves. That’s where they’re taking Aileen and the rest of my clan. That’s where we have to go.

  I don’t know much about Norveg, the country the deamhain come from. All I know is that it’s hundreds of miles away to the east, on the other side of Scotia and across the vast North Sea. They haven’t been seen in these waters for as long as anyone can remember.

  There’s something in the water. I shake my head. Exhaustion is making me see things. It’s still there. A broken barrel, maybe, or part of a tree? I stop rowing and put the spyglass to my eye. There’s no mistaking: it is a deamhan, bobbing faceup on the surface. Braids float around his head like tentacles. His eyes are closed and he’s not moving. He looks dead.

  “What is it?” Agatha asks as I lower the spyglass. It is the first time she’s spoken all day.

  “Something in the water,” I say. “Nothing.”

  “But what is it?” she asks again. She’ll keep asking until I tell her the truth.

  “A deamhan,” I say, “but I think he’s dead.”

  “We should — search him,” she says.

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

  “He may have a m-map or a — weapon.”

  “If he’s still alive, he’ll kill us.”

  “If he’s alive we can make him tell us which way to — go.”

  “Of course. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to point us in the right direction.” The sarcasm comes out thicker than I intend it to.

  “You shouldn’t be so mean to me. It’s a — good plan. I’m not stupid. Everyone thinks I’m stupid, but I’m not — stupid.”

  “I don’t think that, Aggie; I’m just saying it’d be too dangerous to try.”

  “You’re scared. I’m not. I’m brave, and you should be too. We’re Clann-a-Tuath and —”

  I put my hand up to silence her midsentence. He’s gone. I scan the water back and forth, hoping the body is hidden behind a wave, but no: the deamhan is no longer there.

  “Where did he g-go?” Agatha asks.

  “I don’t know.” I swallow.

  Fear is the greatest weakness. Fear is the greatest weakness.

  My stomach feels like it’s churning sand.

  “Maybe he sank,” Agatha says.

  “Probably,” I say. “We should move on.”

  No sooner have I spoken than a powerful thrust from underneath the boat rolls my side into the air. As the boat drops back down, a hand reaches up and grabs the top of my arm. There is a flash of angry teeth, and then I’m submerged under the waves. The cold water stabs me all over. I squirm, trying to loosen the deamhan’s grip, but his strength is absolute. My head turns thick, and the pressure in my chest gets tighter and tighter. A heavy pulse beats behind my eyes, as if they might burst at any moment. Dark blue blurs my vision, and time slows to nothing. This is it. I am going to die.

  Three dull thumps reverberate through the arm that is holding me, muffled by the water. Just as my senses are about to shut down, the vise-like hold disappears, and I propel myself to the surface with desperate kicks. I inhale my first breath with an animal cry. Above me, an oar swings down and strikes the deamhan on the side of his face. Blood races across his neck into the water. I follow the oar back to the person holding it, expecting to see Agatha, but it is Lileas who has come to my rescue.

  Now that the deamhan has both hands free, he grabs hold of the oar and yanks it away from her, nearly pulling her overboard. I splash my way to the other side of the boat and pull myself in.

  I stand there dripping, deciding what to do next. The deamhan has disappeared again.

  “He went under the water,” says Lileas.

  Agatha is at the far end of the boat, staring down at the deck.

  “Stay away from the sides,” I warn them both. Lileas nods; Agatha does not react.

  “We need a weapon,” says Lileas.

  She’s right. I rush to the stern and start scrabbling through the supplies, keeping my body low in case the deamhan tips the boat again. I find a length of thick rope and a corcag, a small knife used for gutting fish. I hold one in each hand and creep back to the center of the boat. Lileas is next to me, looking up at me with wide eyes.

  The thud of my heart echoes in my ears. Far away, a bird screeches out in pain or surprise. I blink back the wind and grip the corcag even tighter in my hand. Could I really use it if it came to that? I think I might be sick.

  There are bubbles rising to the surface a few yards away. It’s him, it has to be. The bubbles get more intense, and then his whole body bursts out of the water as if possessed. He thrashes his arms and howls foreign words. Something is attacking him. He punches beneath the surface with his fists. From behind me, Agatha lets out a gasp.

  His struggles move him closer to the boat. Now is my chance. I weigh the rope in one hand against the corcag in the other. The knife would be the swifter option, but I can’t bring myself to use it. I sling it to the deck and wrap the rope around both my hands, keeping them shoulder-width apart. The deamhan is still fighting to dispel the creature from his legs. He’s now so close that his head keeps knocking against the side of the boat. It only takes one attempt to reach down, slip the rope over his head, and loop it around his neck. With all my strength, I pull the two ends of the rope into my chest. Surprise flashes in the man’s eyes for the briefest moment, replaced by an intense anger. Two fists fly out of the water, aiming to crush my skull. I whip my head back just in time. The deamhan forgets about the sea creature and focuses all his energy on stopping me. His hands find my wrists, and his thumbs press into my veins. I’m not strong enough for this; he’s so much stronger than I am. I tense my jaw in resistance. He flings his head from side to side and pummels my arms. I respond by pulling even tighter. This is for Clann-a-Tuath, I think. For what you did to the elders. For what you tried to do to me.

  His whole body goes slack, the deadweight of it almost dragging me over the side of the boat. I hold on for another couple of beats, then release the pressure on his neck. He doesn’t move. I killed him. Ò daingead. Did I really just kill him? He tried to do the same to me — he would have done the same to me — but still, still . . . A mouthful of vomit gurgles up into my throat. I stop it before it gets any farther and swallow it back down. Its acidy tang lingers in my mouth.

  “Help me p-pull him in,” Agatha says. “We need to search his — body.” She leans over and grabs him under one arm. At least she’s snapped out of her stupor. Lileas follows her lead and holds on to his opposite shoulder. Without really thinking what I’m doing, I help them haul him up out of the water. It takes all of our combined strength, and we collapse backward as soon as his body tips into the boat. His legs are still dangling over the side, his trousers torn to pieces. Wrapped around his right ankle is the largest jellysquid I’ve ever seen. It’s the first time I’ve seen one alive. Ripples of orange and yellow flash across its translucent body.

  “Don’t go near it,” I say. They’re renowned for being volatile, even out of the water.

  The jellysquid slides off the deamhan’s foot and drops back into the sea.

  “Thank you,” says Agatha, waving goodbye to it.

  “That thing probably saved our lives,” I say.

  Agatha nods in agreement.

  Our relief is interrupted by a spluttering behind us. The deamhan is on his side, coughing up water. He’s still alive. I don’t know whether that’s a relief or not.

  “We need to tie — ti
e him up,” says Agatha.

  Shouldn’t we just push him back into the water? He’s so weak he’d probably just drown. I need to make a decision fast, while he’s still slipping in and out of consciousness. Agatha passes me a coil of fishing rope, making the decision for me. I bind his wrists and ankles and then drag him to the prow and tie him to the bowsprit. I was taught how to tie knots by the caiptean himself, so I’m confident they’ll hold. Finally, something good has come from being made an Angler.

  The deamhan’s forehead is hot, as if he is getting a fever. There must have been poison in the jellysquid’s sting. Large, blistering welts have appeared on his legs, distorting the tattoos beneath them. There’s not much I can do for him, even if I was inclined to. He’ll just have to ride it out. He’s unconscious again, so I search his pockets but find nothing of any use.

  I take a step back and look him up and down. Every visible part of his skin is covered in tattoos — all of them red and dark blue, making it look at first glance as if he’s been skinned alive. They contain an intricate latticework of interlocking images: animals, weapons, people, trees, ships . . . The whole world is there, across the curves and slopes of his body. His eyelids, lips, and tongue are also tattooed, midnight blue. He has dark-blond hair — turned darker by salt water and sweat — which is laced with scruffy braids. His braided beard stretches down to his chest.

  “What should we do with him?” Agatha asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe what you suggested: make him tell us how to find our clan. It was a good plan.”

  She beams at the compliment.

  “And then we’ll kill him,” she says as an afterthought.

  She’s right, of course. It would be far too risky to keep him alive. Yet the thought of it fills me with unease. It is one thing to strangle a man after he has attempted to drown you, but another to slit his throat while he is tied up and defenseless. No mercy. That’s what Maighstir Ross would have said.

  “You need me.” The voice is croaky and carries a heavy accent. I didn’t think the deamhan would be able to speak our language. I was wrong.

  “You’re in no position to tell us what we need,” I say, trying my best to sound assertive.

  To my surprise, he starts laughing. It is an ugly laugh, like a wolf choking on glass.

  “Little man,” he says to me, “trying to be the tough one. Chasing us in the tiny boat. You have no hope. I am only hope for you.”

  There is a melodic quality to his voice that is at odds with the halting way he speaks our words.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are just a boy. Boy with no plan. What can you do? Little boy with little girl. And this one they should drown at birth.”

  He nods toward Agatha, who leaps up at the insult, fury in her eyes.

  “We stopped you, didn’t we?” she yells. “M-maybe you shouldn’t be so — so — you don’t know anything about me. I could kill you right now.” By the look on her face, she certainly could.

  He starts to laugh again, but soon collapses into a fit of coughing. Once he has regained control of his breathing, he shakes his head and repeats, “I am only hope for you.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I ask.

  “You are lucky. Very lucky.” He lifts his head as high as the ropes will allow in an attempt to add more weight to his words. “I am Knútr Grímsson of Sterkr Fjall, son to Konge Grímr, warrior of First Fjóti. I am Norvegian prince.”

  “A prince? I don’t believe you,” I say.

  “It is Konge Grímr, my father, who takes your people. Return me — his only son — and he will be so happy to free your people. This is why I laugh. You want to kill me, but you must not do it.”

  This could change everything. If what he is saying is true, we would have something — someone — to bargain with.

  “Prove it,” I say.

  He is unfazed by my demand.

  “Lift my sleeve now,” he says. “On the side of left.”

  I take a step toward him. It might be a trap.

  “Do not be scared; I do not bite,” he says, baring his teeth and gnashing them at me.

  I use the end of an oar to push back his sleeve up to his elbow. On the underside of his forearm, among all the other tattoos, there is one in the shape of a large medallion. It is a deeper red than the others. There are runes surrounding it that I cannot read.

  “This is insignia of prince,” he says with pride. “Made with blood of my father, the king. Only royal persons are having the tattoos of blood. So now you know it.”

  It might be what he claims it to be, but he could just as easily be lying.

  “Why were you in the water?” I ask, buying myself time to think. “If you’re so important, surely your people would have stopped their boats to search for you?”

  “They do not see that I am gone for much time. It is night and we drink lots of mjøð to celebrate our great victory.” He gives me a cruel smile as he says this. I do not react, so he continues. “I feel I want to see the stars, so I go to top. The stars are very beautiful at sea. I want to be close, so I climb — I do not know word for it. But I climb very high. I have drink too much and when I am at top, there is big wind and I fall down to water. No one sees me fall. I shout, but no one hears. I try to swim, but the boat is fast. Much time later the boat stops, and they know I am gone. They come back to me and in circles looking, but they are too far away and cannot see me. They think I am dead and leave with the sadness. When they go, I swim far and then I see this boat and think to take it. If not for dakkar sting on my legs, I will kill you all and have your boat.” He spits to punctuate the end of his story. It lands at my feet.

  He closes his eyes, beginning to succumb to the fever that is squirming through his body. Something about his story nags at me, like he’s not quite telling the truth.

  “Where are your boats headed?”

  “To Norveg, of course: the greatest nation. Your people are slaves now. They go to Norveg and are slaves until they die. It is the end of them. Unless you take me back.”

  “How do we get to Norveg?”

  His eyes spring back open; they’re bright white against the dark blue of his eyelids. He runs his thick blue tongue behind his lips, weighing whether to tell me.

  “North. Around top of Skottland and across Norðsjór, the North Sea.”

  “And you can show us the way?”

  “Of course. But it takes many days, and not good in this boat. Better you take shortcut across Skottland.”

  “Skottland? You mean Scotia?”

  “If that is what you say.”

  We can’t. As much as I want to get out of this boat, there’s no way we can cut across the mainland. No one goes near it anymore. It’s a wild place now, full of nothing but death and unknown terrors.

  “Why we wait?” he says, before closing his eyes again and muttering to himself in his own language.

  I turn my back on him and walk to the stern, where the others are waiting. Agatha is staring thunder at the deamhan, and Lileas is crouching in the corner, wanting to be as far away from him as possible.

  “What do you think?” I ask them under my breath.

  “I — hate him,” says Agatha.

  “He’s not my favorite person either,” I say, “but that tattoo does look like it could be genuine.”

  “So what do we do — now?”

  Agatha and Lileas are both looking at me. Why do I have to make all the decisions? The oar that the deamhan snatched from Lileas earlier is still floating on the water. I stretch over the side of the boat and retrieve it.

  “We should keep him alive,” I say. The oar is ice cold in my hand. “As long as he’s tied up, he can’t harm us. Let’s head toward Scotia. Once we’re near, we can follow the coastline north. We’ll be safer in shallower water.”

  “But what about the shadow things?” asks Agatha.

  “Sgàilean aren’t real, Agatha. They were made up to scare little kids.”

&
nbsp; “You don’t know that,” she says. “And there’s also the — the terror beasts. We shouldn’t go near the mainland, Jaime, we — shouldn’t.”

  “We need to be close to the coast so we can follow it north. We’ll be safe as long as we stay in the boat. What other choice do we have?” I look from Agatha to Lileas and then back again. “So are we in agreement?”

  Lileas gives a tiny nod, and Agatha shrugs.

  “Which way to Scotia?” I ask the deamhan.

  He looks at the sky — at the sun, perhaps — and then points.

  I pick up another oar and start to row in that direction, full of doubt about whether I have made the right decision.

  “I NEVER THANKED YOU,” I SAY.

  “Thanked me for what?” asks Lileas.

  “For saving my life. When the deamhan attacked.” I glance in his direction. He’s asleep, his body twisted by the ropes.

  “We’re clan,” she says with a modest smile. “We have to protect each other.”

  I hadn’t considered that before, but she’s right. She’s one of us now.

  A day has passed since the deamhan, Knútr, tried to take our boat. A misty sleet haunted us all morning, but as soon as it cleared, we could make out the Scotian mainland in the distance: a long smear, hostile and uninviting. I rowed toward it until we were about fifty yards away, then turned the boat north. I feel better for having a plan, even if it’s vague and not a very good one. If nothing else, it’s giving us a direction to travel in. Every now and then, I squint at the mainland, searching for any signs of life. Despite all the horror stories we’ve been told about it, my heart beats a little slower knowing there is land nearby.

  I’ve managed to get the sail working. Sort of. The wind’s a bit unpredictable at times, but at least it makes the rowing easier. While I row, Lileas leans over the side with a crude fishing line she’s made. So far this afternoon she’s caught and gutted three fish, which are splayed out on the bench beside us. She learned how to fish from her father, who’s a sort of Angler. They don’t have duties on Raasay — everyone is allowed to choose whatever job they want — but her father goes out on a boat every day and catches fish, just like the Anglers do. Did. Don’t think about that. The only difference is, he’s allowed to keep all the fish he catches. I don’t know why anyone would want that many fish. Nothing about the way they live on Raasay makes any sense.