By the time we stop for the day, my backside, back, and jaw are all throbbing. Even my arms ache from holding on to Cray for so long. We are in a place called Lossiemouth, a small coastal settlement due east of Inbherness. I don’t know how Cray knows the names of all these places. Perhaps his tribe has been this way before. There is only a smattering of bothans here, but it has the same ugly feeling of desertion as everywhere else we’ve passed.
After leaving the animals to graze, Cray chooses a bothan for us to sleep in. I am expecting the ceiling to be really high because it is such a tall building, but it’s not. Cray explains that there is a second floor above us. I have no idea what keeps it from falling on our heads. He goes up the steps — which he tells me are called “stairs” or a “staircase” when they’re inside — to check there are no animals hiding there. While he’s gone, I wander around the main room, tracing my fingertips over all the unfamiliar objects: things made out of twisted metal, large pots full of dry earth, woven items hanging on the walls.
“All clear,” says Cray as he comes back down. He takes Knútr into the connecting room and starts tying him to a metal grid that’s attached to a fireplace.
“Shouldn’t we keep him where we can see him?” I ask.
“He’s not going anywhere,” says Cray.
I relent, grateful that he can no longer stare at me.
In the center of the main room is a hearth with a large cooking pot sitting askew in its ashes. Cray starts a fire and, after giving the pot a quick rinse, uses it to make a stew. I didn’t expect him to know how to cook.
“What’s the meat?” I ask when I see him adding some to the pot.
“Wildwolf,” he replies.
“Oh.”
“From the battle. No use in it going to waste.”
It makes sense, I suppose.
When it’s ready, he spoons a large portion into a wooden bowl and hands it to me. It’s still bubbling. I wrap my hands around the bowl and let the steam warm my face.
“How did you enjoy your first day as a Bó Rider?” Cray asks.
“Every single part of me aches. Even parts of me I didn’t know could ache. I don’t know how you ride those things every day.”
“Highland bulls, Jaime. Don’t call them ‘things’ to their face. They’ll get very upset.”
He’s joking. I think.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“We’ll set off at first light. Not far from here is an overgrown road that leads almost all the way to the harbor.”
Cray raises his bowl to his lips and slurps down a big mouthful of stew.
“Is it dangerous?”
“Is what dangerous?”
“The route we’re taking.”
“Shouldn’t be. Besides, you lucked out: you got me as your protector.” He winks, with an unattractive mix of pride and patronization.
“What do I need protecting from?”
A shadow from the fire passes over his face, wiping away his cocksure smile.
“You think he did it, don’t you? King Balfour. You think he managed to create a sgàil?”
Cray puts down his bowl and stares at me. It’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him. He drums one of his knuckles against his teeth. “When I was a child, I was taken on a hunting trip not far from Dunnottar. Bras was only young then and not as fast as the other bulls. Everyone else shot off in pursuit of a roebuck, and we got left behind. We were following their tracks when the worst smell you can imagine hit us. I can’t tell you how bad it was, but I was intrigued. I had to find out where it was coming from. We circled around until I found this ditch. I knew right away it was the source of the smell. I also knew I would regret looking, but I looked in all the same. The body must have been there for days. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Half its face had been pulled off, including one eye. It was missing a leg and both of its arms. From the mess that remained, it looked like the limbs had been clean ripped from its body. I only glanced at it for a moment, but the image has stayed with me ever since.” He looks down at his feet. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
“You think the person was attacked by a sgàil?”
“I don’t know. It could have been a mountain cat or a pack of wildwolves, I suppose. There was just something about the way the limbs had been removed that looked more like they’d been pulled off than bitten or chewed. I was young; that’s probably why it left such an impression on me.”
A sea wind sneaks through the cracks in the door frame and plays havoc with the fire. I finish the last of my stew. The empty bowl turns cold in my hands.
“Tell me about the girl,” says Cray after a while. “If you want to.”
“Which girl?” My throat clenches.
“The one who died. I heard the deamhan killed a girl who was traveling with you.”
I don’t want to talk about it. Least of all to Cray. Just because he opened up to me doesn’t mean I have to do the same.
When I don’t respond, Cray continues, “I can tell how difficult it is for you to be around him. I respect you for fighting to keep him alive, even though I’m sure that’s the last thing you want to do. I’m not sure I’d have that much willpower.”
His compliment derails me.
“She was my wife.” I say.
He doesn’t hide his surprise.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You marry young in your tribe.”
“We hadn’t been married long. It’s complicated.” I look away to make it clear I have no intention of saying anything else.
The fire crackles and spits between us.
“I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about,” he says. The faintest glimmer mists his eyes. Now it is my turn to be surprised.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Another wildwolf attack. About three months ago. There were only ten or so of them, but they took us by surprise. We lost two cows and one of our people.”
A lazy tear drifts down his cheek. He does nothing to hide it.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Was the person a friend of yours?”
“More than a friend. He was my . . . partner.”
“You mean your bull-riding partner?”
“No, Jaime. My partner.”
I must have misunderstood. “But you just said —?”
Cray looks at me, his expression blank.
“Oh. Oh, okay. Okay. You — Okay.”
“Is it okay?” he asks.
I honestly don’t know. I’ve heard about people like that, but I also know it’s not right. The elders were very clear on the subject. I breathe in too deeply, and smoke claws my chest. All the air has been sucked out of the room.
“I need to go outside,” I say, making my way toward the door.
Cray lets me leave.
As soon as I open the door, the wind bites my face. I walk toward the sea, letting the breeze tousle my hair and pummel my eyes. The moon glows between the clouds, like a neat circle of spilled milk.
Why does it bother me so much who Cray is attracted to? It’s none of my business. Yet I’m now forced to reassess everything I thought I knew about him, as if he’s been lying to me this whole time. I’ve had my arms around him all day. I feel hot. Itchy.
I slip down onto a boulder. My hand finds a stone lying next to me. I pick it up and throw it toward the endless black of the sea.
Tears streak down my face, and I have no idea why. There are too many reasons. Everything is wrong. Everything in the whole world is wrong.
What am I even doing? I know nothing about Norveg. Nothing. Ever since the attack, I’ve been stumbling forward without any real sense of where I’m going or how I’ll get there. It’s too dangerous. First Knútr, then the wildwolves, now possibly even sgàilean. I can’t do this. I’m not the leader my clan needs me to be.
Fear is the greatest weakness.
It’s true, and I am afraid. I am weak.
The first spots of rain land on the nape of my
neck. I lean back and let them tickle my face. It starts to fall more heavily, but I stay where I am. The boulder feels reassuringly solid beneath my palms. Only once the rain becomes torrential and the sky starts to rumble do I pick myself up and walk back to the bothan. I stand outside, underneath a small roof that juts out above its door. I’m soaking wet, shivering. Lightning streaks through the clouds, and the rain intensifies to a deafening roar. The sound of it fills my ears and drowns everything else away.
The door opens.
“Are you all right?” Cray asks.
“I’m fine,” I say without looking at him.
“Are you coming back in?”
“In a bit.”
He closes the door, leaving me alone.
When I was young, one of my favorite òrain was about the two clouds, Tàirneach and Dealanach. They’d been enemies since the dawn of time and would frequently fight. Dealanach had a magical sword that could shoot out deadly flashes of light, and Tàirneach possessed a large bronze shield capable of rebounding light in any direction. Sometimes their battles would last all night, filling the sky with dazzling flashes and unearthly bellows. If they fought long enough, it was said, they would eventually tire and drop their weapons on the earth below for one lucky person to find.
Once, when I was very young — long before the elders gave me my age — Aileen woke me up in the middle of the night. Her face lit up in a sudden flash of lightning from outside.
“They’re fighting!” she said. “Quick, let’s go.”
She whipped back my bedcovers, and the two of us sneaked outside. We’d made a secret plan to watch a whole fight from below so we’d be first to see where their weapons fell. Hand in hand we ran around the enclave, our necks craned to the sky, whooping and howling at the wonder of it all. We got into a lot of trouble when the elders found us, but it remains one of my favorite memories.
While there is a chance that Aileen is alive, I will keep fighting. I will find a boat, I’ll make Knútr lead us to Norveg, and I will demand my people’s release. It is as simple as that. It has to be.
It’s raining
I like it when it rains
They don’t like it though
They sulk
They don’t like the rain and they don’t like the sun
There’s no pleasing some people
They’re not people
Not anymore
Raindrops on my fingers raindrops on my toes
I don’t remember the rest of it
They’re whispering
More than usual
Outside in the courtyard and up on the roof
All around the castle walls
Stupid shadows
They know something but they won’t tell me what it is
Whispering whispering always whispering
Stop it will you I can’t hear myself think
If you don’t stop soon I’m going to get really mad
I’ll trap you inside
Don’t think I won’t do it
I know how
Daddy showed me
You have to do everything I say or I’ll trap you forever
Then you’ll be sorry
CRAY IS CAUTIOUS AROUND ME WHEN HE FIRST WAKES up. I got up early and prepared our morning meal, which I present as a sort of peace offering. He takes it from me with a nod. My clan would not approve of him, but he’s not a bad person. Annoying, maybe, but not bad. We won’t talk about it again and everything will be fine.
We eat the meal in silence. Once Cray has finished, he wipes his mouth and leaves to check on the cows. I busy myself by packing up our few possessions and then take some food and water in to Knútr. His snores sound like he’s swallowing gravel. It takes three shouts to wake him. He licks the sleep from his lips with a fat tongue. I scoop some lukewarm oats onto a spoon. My hand trembles a little as I hold it toward him. I squeeze the spoon tighter to keep my arm steady.
“You scared I bite off your fingers?” he says.
I shove the spoon against his lips, and he opens his mouth. I keep my eyes locked on his the whole time I am feeding him. Afterward, I put a water flask to his mouth, and he takes a long swig. As I lower the flask, he spits the water back out into my face. It takes all my willpower not to react.
“If you’re not thirsty, you should have just said,” I say. I walk out, taking the flask with me.
As soon as I am out of the room, I wipe away the water with the back of my sleeve. As much as I scrub, I can still feel his spit on my face.
“Are you ready to go?” Cray asks from the doorway.
I nod. Cray fetches Knútr while I take out the sidebags and attach them to the cow. Last night’s storm has left a freshness in the air that I can almost taste.
Once Cray has secured Knútr, he pulls himself onto Bras and then reaches his hand out to me. I hesitate. If I sit behind him, I will have to hold on to him all day. The space between us becomes heavy.
“It’s okay, I’ll walk today,” I say.
The way Cray looks at me rips up my insides. “Fine,” he says.
“Lovers’ argument?” Knútr taunts.
It is too much. I turn around and shove Knútr off his cow. He thumps to the ground like a sack of turnips. I am not finished with him yet. I stride around to where he has landed and kick him as hard as I can.
“Take that back,” I shout, kicking him again. “You take that back!”
Blood erupts from his burst nose and pools onto the sandy ground. I kick him again; I cannot stop. My teeth are clenched so tight they may crack.
“Take that back!”
Cray jumps down and grabs me from behind.
“That’s enough,” he says, pulling me away.
He is strong and I don’t resist. He walks me a few paces, and then I shrug him off. He turns me toward him and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he tells me, holding me at arm’s length.
My breathing is short and irregular.
“I don’t know why I did that,” I say. “That’s not like me at all.”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
I stare at the ground. Cray’s hands are still on my shoulders. I wish he’d take them off.
“You ride Bras,” he says. “I’ll walk.”
I don’t argue. I walk over to the bull and drag myself up.
Progress is slow with Cray walking, and the silence is torturous. Knútr’s face is covered in thick, crusted blood, and beneath his tattoos, both his eyes are starting to bruise. He is full of rage, which makes him even more dangerous. Still, I am glad to have finally wiped the constant smirk from his face.
CRAY WASN’T EXAGGERATING WHEN HE SAID THE ROAD to Dunnottar was overgrown. Great twisting brambles snake in from both sides, and we have to keep stopping to cut our way through. Around midday, I dismount to help Cray hack at another tight knot. Knútr is slumped forward on his cow, asleep. That man can sleep anywhere.
Cray attacks the branches with fierce stabs. I only have a small knife, so the work makes my skinny arms ache.
“I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” I say. “And I really am sorry about what happened to your friend.”
Cray doesn’t reply. He continues to thrash at the brambles in front of him and I keep cutting too, ignoring the thorns that nip at my wrists.
“Did everyone in your tribe know about your relationship?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies.
“And they didn’t mind?”
Cray stops and looks at me. His forehead and chest are covered in a thin layer of sweat. “Why would they mind?”
I pause, not wanting to offend him further. “My clan would never accept it,” I say. “It’s not dùth.”
“What does that mean, ‘ dùth’ ?”
“It means what’s honorable, what’s proper and right.”
“Right according to who?”
“Um . . . Well, the clan elders, I guess.”
“And why did they decide two peop
le can’t be happy?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I have no answer for that.
Cray starts cutting again, and the conversation is over.
Once we’ve cleared enough for the animals to get through, I slip the knife back into my belt and then say, “If you’d rather not walk, I don’t mind.”
“You walk slower than I do,” he replies. “It’d take us even longer.”
“No, I mean we can ride together again. If you want to?”
“How very noble of you,” he says, before swinging up onto Bras. He then gives me a flicker of a smile and offers me his hand. This time I accept, and he pulls me up. I try not to tense as I put my arms around his waist.
The rest of the day is uneventful. I think about Agatha a lot. I hope she’s feeling better, and that they’re on their way. I miss her already.
Once the sun goes down, we set up camp under a temporary shelter, which Cray erects by tying a large covering to three intersecting trees. It is made from pieces of sewn-together skin, just like the tents at the Bó Riders’ camp.
“A mixture of wildwolf, sheep, and elk hide,” Cray says when he sees me looking at it.
“Oh, good,” I say.
“Why? What did you think it was?”
I shrug.
“After a successful hunt, we use every conceivable part of the animal’s body. You shouldn’t take anything nature gives you for granted. All life is precious, after all.”
“Is it the same with your bulls?” I ask.
“What? Do we use bull skin?” His face crumples, as if my question is absurd. “Of course not. Would you skin a member of your tribe?”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Sorry.”
I glance at the bull and the cow, who are lying down next to us. They really are beautiful animals. So majestic. Cray settles down to sleep next to Bras, nuzzling into his long hair for warmth. He suggests I do the same with the cow, who he tells me is called Sruth. Her body is warm and smells of dust and mud.
I try to sleep, but the few snatches I manage are haunted by dreams of Knútr, hunting me through a dark wood with a serrated knife. More than once, I sit up to check that he is still tied up where we left him. The morning light is a welcome relief.
The Good Hawk Page 14