The Good Hawk

by Joseph Elliott

  “What? You don’t have marriage?”

  “None of the clans on Skye do.” I put down the knife. “Does your tribe?”

  “Of course. We always have.”

  “Oh. We believe it’s not worth the struggle.”

  “It’s the struggle that makes it worthwhile. Marriage is the ultimate commitment of love. It’s a beautiful thing.”

  “My clan doesn’t think so.”

  “Your clan sounds kind of messed up, no offense.”

  “None taken.” Actually, no. He has no right to speak about my clan like that. “You don’t know them. Not like I do. Everything they do, all of their rules, they’re there for a reason: to protect us and make our lives better. My clan has always been there for me. They’ve taken care of me and given me everything I’ve ever needed. And now they need me, and I won’t let them down. No matter the cost.”

  Cray’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. I inhale charred grass and burning wood. It scorches my throat. The taste is not unpleasant.

  “Why don’t you go back to sleep?” I say. “There’s no point in both of us being awake.” I don’t want to talk to him anymore. We may think differently from his tribe, but that doesn’t make us wrong.

  “I’m all right,” he says, but a short while later he closes his eyes.

  Good.

  It’s been at least nine days since the invasion. Nine days. How many of my clan have the deamhain killed since then?

  An image flashes through my mind. I am in the clearing in the woods and Knútr holds the corcag to a girl’s throat, but it is Aileen — not Lileas — he is about to kill.

  Then an even darker thought replaces it. One that’s been niggling away at me for days, demanding to be acknowledged. I never wanted to marry Lileas. She was a burden, a cause of shame. Now that she’s dead, that burden has been lifted.

  The thought makes me sick, but that doesn’t stop it from being true.

  I pick up the tree branch I was carving. A half-finished heron stares back at me, its eyes hollow, its feet burned. I fling it into the flames and they swallow it up.

  The fire roars with self-assurance as it turns the world to ash.

  KNÚTR REGAINS CONSCIOUSNESS AS THE SUN RISES. HE struggles to sit up. I stretch my arms as wide as they will go.

  “Still think the sgàilean is a story for little girls?” I ask him.

  He grunts in response.

  “I make that the fourth time someone’s had to save your life in a week.”

  “Untie me and I save myself next time,” he says.

  “Next time, do what you’re told.”

  Cray wakes up and rides back to the bramble path to leave a warning about the sgàilean for whoever accompanies Agatha.

  What happens if she doesn’t turn up? What do I do then? Or what if she started getting worse instead of better? If that’s the case, I should be there with her. She needs me. Stop it. She’s fine. She’ll be fine. She’ll come.

  The flames are getting weary, the trees reduced to thin, sooty poles.

  Once Cray returns, we light the torches and then set off toward the harbor. Cray doesn’t think we’ll need the torches now that it’s daytime, but after last night, we’re not taking any chances. Sruth doesn’t protest about having one tied to her this time. Cray makes an additional torch from a fallen branch, which he holds on to so that we have one each.

  We approach the castle at a cautious pace. It’s built on a rocky peninsula that juts out into the sea, with sheer cliff edges surrounding it on all sides, making it almost impossible to attack. Waves crash on the eastern cliffs like ancient clans colliding in battle.

  When we reach the lip of the western cliff, the harbor opens out below us. The remains of the docks stretch across the entire breadth of the cove’s calm waters. People in the castle would have been able to look down and observe every ship sailing in and out. It must have looked breathtaking in its heyday, but now the docks are rotten, and large parts of them have been reclaimed by the sea. There are still a few boats dotted around, though, which is a great relief.

  “Let’s head down and look at your options,” says Cray. “I know almost nothing about boats, though. Do you?”

  “A little,” I say. My days as an Angler feel like a lifetime ago.

  We leave Bras and Sruth at the top of the cliff and walk down the steps to the harbor. Knútr goes first, with Cray keeping a tight grip on the ropes that bind him. The deamhan keeps stumbling on the steep, uneven stone.

  When we reach the bottom, Cray ties Knútr to a post, and then we walk up the gangway that leads to the tethered vessels. It’s slippery underfoot; a thick layer of seaweed smothers what’s left of the wooden walkways. I place my feet with care, navigating the many cracks and holes.

  The boats are a lot bigger up close than they looked from above. I guess they’re ships rather than boats. Cray says that’s probably a good thing, that we’ll need something big to make it across the North Sea, but I’m worried I won’t know how to sail it. I struggled enough with the rowing boat, and that only had one small sail.

  The most stable-looking ship — which I thought at first would be our best option — has a massive breach in its hull. There’s no way we’ll be able to fix it. Most of the other ships are in a similar state. The only one that looks remotely functional is a lot older than the others. It has gold-and-purple trim, although the colors have almost completely faded. The word Plathag is written down its side in peeling paint.

  “What does that mean?” I ask Cray.

  “No idea,” he replies without even looking.

  We climb aboard and have a look around. Several of the deck planks have come loose, and the sails are torn and will need replacing. Other than that, it’s in relatively good condition. Belowdecks, there is a strong smell of mold, but it is dry and there are no obvious signs of damage.

  “I think this is the one,” I say to Cray.

  “It’s the best of a bad lot,” he agrees.

  “I can take the sails and whatever else I need from one of the other ships, but before I can start, I’m going to need some tools.”

  We both know where our best chance of finding tools will be: inside the castle. Cray says I need to embrace my fear. Right now, it’s telling me that going into the castle is a very bad idea.

  It’s started to rain, making the climb back up the cliff steps a miserable slog. Drizzle swarms around us from all angles, and by the time we reach the top, we are all out of breath. The only way to approach the castle is via a narrow path that snakes around the cliff edge. We walk in single file, and more than once the animals lose their footing, causing small stones to break off and fall into the sea far below. Cray assures me they’re more sure-footed than they look.

  Once we’ve navigated the path, we are given an uninterrupted view of the castle. It towers above us, scornful and obtrusive. One of its turrets has crumpled in on itself as if in a drunken stupor. Vines stretch out of the earth like fleshless arms and clamber up its sides. There is an almighty door — bigger even than the gates of the enclave — that hangs askew. There is a second, more regular-size door to its right. Cray tries the handle. It opens.

  “Let’s see what we can find,” he says, and disappears inside.

  A short passageway opens onto a large courtyard. Like most of the places we’ve passed through, it stinks of abandonment. No one has lived here for a very long time.

  “Hello?” shouts Cray. His voice echoes across the stone walls. “I guess if anyone was living here, the sgàilean would have made short work of them. Let’s split up. It’ll be quicker that way.” Splitting up is the last thing I want to do, but I agree rather than admit that to Cray. “You head for the main tower,” he says. “I’ll tie Knútr up in that stable and then search the buildings connected to the courtyard so I can keep an eye on him at the same time. It’ll probably be dark inside, so keep your torch high and stay away from any shadows.”

  That’s one thing I don’t need reminding a
bout.

  The main tower is at the opposite end of the courtyard. Looking up at it makes me giddy. At ground level, the double doors are slightly ajar. I slip inside and daylight vanishes. As my eyes adjust, a long room opens up before me. There are windows, but they are slim and the stone walls are thick, making it hard for any light to squeeze through. My torch casts dark shapes over the ceiling and walls. So much for staying out of the shadows. Thoughts of dark hands reaching out to grab me assault my mind. I look behind me at the brightness of the courtyard, just beyond the doors. It is not too late to turn back. I press on, putting my trust in the light from the torch.

  The room is largely empty and smells of must. Pictures of morose people in strange clothes hang on the walls. They’re all so lifelike. I take another few steps forward. There is a stain on the floor beneath my feet: a dark-brown smear that leads all the way from the doors to the wide staircase at the far end of the room. I kneel and hold my torch to it. My heart thuds heavy against my rib cage. It looks like dried blood, as if something — or someone — has been dragged across the entire length of the room and up the steps. As if this place wasn’t creepy enough already. Keep going. Keep going. I can do this.

  On either side of the staircase is a door. I try the one on the right, and as soon as it opens, I’m consumed by the smell of death. I hold my breath long enough to peer inside.

  I’ve only seen a skeleton once before. About five years ago, we had the worst winter on Skye that anyone could remember. It snowed without stopping for weeks on end, and the Northern and Western Gates froze shut, making it impossible for the Anglers to leave. Even if they could, the ice gales would have made it too dangerous to fish. Our food supplies dwindled, and two people passed away in their sleep from the cold.

  Having run out of other options, the elders turned to the Forgotten Gods. No one actually thought it would help, but the elders were desperate and had to be seen to be doing something. They decreed that our last remaining goat be hanged, an ancient custom that was once believed to reduce widespread suffering by inflicting it instead upon a single animal. Something to do with balancing the universe.

  The entire clan, wrapped in as many clothes and blankets as they could find, gathered around the tallest tree in the enclave and watched as Maighstir Clyde and Maistreas Sorcha tied a noose around the goat’s neck. It was then hoisted up, its legs scrabbling as it desperately sought ground. When it finally stopped shaking, we all returned to our bothans, pretending not to feel ashamed. Over the days that followed, we watched with morbid fascination as the goat was pecked apart by birds. Some children threw stones, aiming for the empty eye sockets.

  The snow melted soon afterward, and spring broke through. The goat’s body stayed hanging from the tree; no one wanted to risk taking it down, just in case. After a few weeks, it had been so ravaged by the scavenger birds that only its skeleton remained, hollow and insignificant. It was hard to accept that, under our skin, that’s all we are: a collection of dull bones, hanging together.

  That same hollow feeling returns to me now, as I look into the room. It contains the skeletal remains of more people than I can count. At the far end of the room, the bodies have been laid out in neat lines. Toward the middle and closer to the door, there is no such order; the bones are a ramshackle heap, as if the later bodies were slung in with total disregard for the people they had once been. Bent hands reach out from the pile. Skulls mock me with garish smiles. I’m not going to find any tools in there.

  I shut the door and press my back against it. Once my breathing’s settled, I cross over to the second door. It’s locked. After the shock of the first room, I’m relieved. Although now the only other option is the staircase. I hesitate and then make my way up, avoiding the trail of dry blood in the center. My footsteps are much louder than I want them to be.

  At the top, a corridor curves away in both directions. The path of blood veers off to the left before disappearing underneath a door a couple of paces away. That makes the decision of which way to go a whole lot easier. I turn right and follow the passage past a couple of doors. I stop outside the third. The frame of this one is engraved with elegant symbols that make it stand out from all the others. The handle is metal and cold. I ease the door open and peer inside.

  The room is dominated by a wooden bed three times larger than any I’ve seen before. It’s surrounded by moth-eaten material that drapes down from the ceiling like the sails of a ship. I wonder if they could be of any use to us. Next to the bed is a small table with a hairbrush on it. There is still hair tangled in its bristles.

  In the far corner is a large clothes chest. I open it to see if there’s anything inside that would be suitable for Knútr; the clothes he’s wearing are ripped to pieces and reek of stale sweat. The box does have clothes in it, but none that I could convince Knútr to wear. I smile, imagining Knútr dressed in one of the flowery robes in front of me.

  “You shouldn’t be in here. Mummy wouldn’t like it.”

  I whip my head around and come face-to-face with a gaunt specter. I yell, and the figure starts screaming back at me. I hold the torch in front of me as a weapon.

  Someone comes rushing up the stairs, then Cray bursts in.

  “What is it?”

  He stops when he sees the woman. She is wearing a long, decomposing dress. Her teeth are black and skewed and her tangled hair almost reaches the floor.

  “Are you okay?” Cray asks.

  “I’m fine; she just surprised me, that’s all. She appeared out of nowhere.”

  The woman doesn’t move. Her eyes are fixed on me.

  “Hello,” Cray says, keeping his distance. “I’m Cray, and this is Jaime. What’s your name?”

  She doesn’t turn toward him or reply. She tilts her head to one side, then cackles, loud and fast, making me flinch.

  “You shouldn’t be here. They’ll tear you up for this,” she says.

  She is still staring at me. The left side of her top lip twitches up and down.

  “We don’t mean any harm,” says Cray.

  “Did you bring the honey?” the woman asks, talking in a slow, calculated manner.

  “Honey? I’m sorry, no — I— ”

  “Why not, naughty boy!” She is cross, and for a moment, I think she might hit me. Then her eyes soften and she smiles. “I’m glad you’ve come back. Shall we feed the horses?”

  “SO YOU MEET THE MAD QUEEN,” SAYS KNÚTR.

  “You knew she was here?” I say.

  We’re back in the courtyard, sheltering from the rain inside the stable. After surprising us in the upstairs room, the woman fled, and we soon lost her in the tower’s maze of passageways.

  Knútr shrugs.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I hear of her. And I see her yesterday in the window.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Why I have to say? I am not your friend.”

  He’s right about that.

  “What do you know about her?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re lying. Tell me.”

  “You have nothing I want.”

  “We have your life,” says Cray, who’s leaning against the broken door frame. “You want to keep that, don’t you?”

  “I tell you so many times: you need me. You will not kill me.”

  “Who said anything about killing?” says Cray. “Just because we can’t kill you doesn’t mean we can’t hurt you.”

  “It is a coward way to hurt me while I am like this. Untie the rope and fight like man, and I will kill you both so quick.”

  “How about you just tell us what you know?”

  “Gå til Helr!” Knútr spits.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” says Cray, taking three steps toward him. “Your body is in tatters. Between the welts on your leg, your nose — which is clearly broken — and the gashes from the sgàil, you’re in a pretty rough way. And you know it. Your leg is infected; if you don’t get treatment soon, it�
�ll become septic. The pain will be unbearable. I don’t care what a tough-guy deamhan you think you are, it’s going to hurt like hell. Best-case scenario: your leg is amputated and you never walk again. Worst-case scenario: a drawn-out and very painful death. Either of those sound appealing to you?” Knútr does not reply. Cray continues, “Lucky for you, I know of a poultice that can heal the infection. Even luckier for you, I happened to bring some with me. Unlucky for you, there’s no way I’m going to give it to you while you keep on being an annoying pain in my màs.”

  I have so much admiration for Cray right now.

  Knútr exhales through his nose and shuffles his swollen leg. “Fine,” he says at last, “but I do not know lots.”

  “Start talking.”

  “Make loose the rope on my hands first.”

  “This isn’t a negotiation. Start. Talking.”

  Knútr’s nostrils flare. He glances at his leg again, then begins to speak. “Long time ago, when everyone is dying, the king and queen keep the princess in the tower so she does not die. They lock her with the key. Then they die. Everyone dies. But she is not die. When she breaks out of tower everyone is dead. She lives here with no one and she is mad. That is all I know. The Mad Queen. That is what they call her.”

  “What who calls her?”

  Knútr keeps his mouth shut.

  “What who calls her?” Cray asks again.

  Knútr’s lip curls. “You think you are so clever, but you know nothing.”

  “Nothing about what? Tell us.”

  When Knútr speaks next, he is less reluctant, as if delighting in our ignorance. “In the south. You think everyone is dead, but you are wrong. In the south, nobody is dead.”

  “You mean in Ingland? Some of the Inglish are still alive?” says Cray.

  Knútr laughs, his battered face smug once again. “You see how stupid you are. You think the plague kills everyone, but in Ingland it kills no one. Because that is where they make it.”

  It takes a moment for what he is claiming to sink in.

  “The plague was made?” I say. “How? By who?”