The Good Hawk

by Joseph Elliott

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  I wonder if I’ll ever see him again after we set sail. I’ve been trying not to admit it to myself, but I know, deep down, that my plan is a hopeless one. Even if we somehow make it to Norveg, the deamhain there will be just as untrustworthy as Knútr. What hope do we have that they’ll honor any sort of an exchange?

  The sun is hovering on the horizon, ready to drop. “We’d better head back,” I say. “It’s about to get dark.”

  Agatha and Mór arrive at the castle at the same time as we do. They’ve been out scavenging for food, which they add to the pile of items we found in the castle: clothes, bedding, weapons, anything we thought might be useful.

  At evening meal, Cray, Finn, and Mór joke with one another and tell us stories. Nathara sits with us for a bit and joins in when the others laugh. Agatha is enraptured by the Bó Riders’ tales and asks to hear more and more. No one mentions tomorrow’s voyage, but it’s all I can think about. Anything could happen. Anything could go wrong.

  Once we’ve eaten, Agatha announces that she is going to take the first watch. Cray turns to Mór, who nods and says, “You sure are. Wake us up if you hear anything unusual.”

  “I will! Don’t worry, I — I will!” says Agatha.

  “I’ll go second,” I say. “Wake me up in a bit, Aggie.”

  “I will do that, J-Jaime.”

  I curl up in a blanket and close my eyes. The muscles between my shoulder blades throb from my work on the ship; the heat from the fire does wonders to soothe them.

  When Agatha wakes me, my first thought is that something is wrong. But she is smiling that big smile of hers and says, “I did it. I d-did the watch, Jaime. It’s your — your turn now.”

  I pull myself up onto my elbows. “Great job, Aggie,” I say. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “I’m going to — sleep now. Good night, Jaime,” she says. Then, glancing at the others, she repeats in an over-emphasized whisper, “Good night, Jaime.”

  She lies down on a mattress, which she insisted we help her pull down from one of the upstairs rooms, and closes her eyes. With the blanket around my shoulders, I cross to one of the narrow windows, hoping the fresh air will wake me up a bit. The night is still.

  I’m worried that if I sit down, I may drift back to sleep, so I pace the room in large circles. The Bó Riders lie close to one another, not far from the door. Knútr is at the opposite end of the hall, near the skeleton room, tied to a large metal chair. His snores echo off the cold stone walls.

  The Badhbh’s diary lies tucked away next to where I was sleeping. I pick it up. It smells of old leaves. I start rereading the final entry. It’s been on my mind since I first read it. What it says is very clear: the Badhbh survived. When everyone else died of the plague, he didn’t. He doesn’t say how he survived, just that he plans to travel west and live in isolation. What I can’t understand is that he knew Nathara was locked in the tower, but he still left without her. She was a child, desperate and afraid, and he left her here alone. What kind of monster would do something like that?

  A noise outside interrupts my reading. A distant bawl of pain. I put the book down, cross to the nearest window, and squint into the darkness. The sound stops. Or maybe it was never there; it’s hard to focus with Knútr snoring in the background. My ears strain against the silence. Nothing. I wander over to the front doors and place my cheek against one of them. At first, the sound is almost imperceptible, but it gets louder and louder: the same whispering we heard when we first approached the castle. The sgàilean. Should I wake the others? No, the room is well lit. We’re safe as long as we remain inside.

  There is another sound, buried underneath the whispering. A slow, repeated scratch, like something heavy dragging itself across the courtyard. It gets louder. Whatever it is, it is getting closer. The door is held shut by a thick plank of wood. I’m not sure how long it would last if someone was really determined to get in. I turn away from the door, but as soon as I do, both of the sounds dissolve away. I count to ten under my breath, as slowly as my thumping heart will allow. Still nothing. I need to take a look. I can do this. I can. I raise the plank from the doors and peer out into the night. There is something in the courtyard, about ten paces from where I’m standing. It’s too dark to make out what it is. I draw my sword. Cray has been teaching me how to use it, but I’m not sure I’m ready. Nothing moves.

  “Hello?” I say. My voice quivers, but only a little.

  There is no answer.

  I hurry to the pile of supplies and pick up a torch, then hold it in the fire until it crackles to life. I should wake someone up, but something stops me. I want to do this on my own. I need to prove that I can.

  Back at the door, I hold the torch in one hand and the sword in the other, and step out into the courtyard. The gravel crunches underfoot and a raw breeze runs up my spine. I shuffle forward a few paces, all of my senses alert. There is a whispering to my left. I swing the torch and the sound stops. As long as I have the fire, I am safe. As long as I have the fire, I am safe.

  As I draw nearer to the object, it moves. A twist of its head so that it stares at me with a single glassy eye. It gurgles from the back of its throat. It is dying, nearly dead. I lower the torch and see the bloody stumps where its horns once were. A stag. I’ve seen one once before on Skye, but never like this. I take another step forward. It is now so close I could reach out and touch it. There are tear marks all over its body. It’s missing one of its back legs, and a deep slit in its side reveals struggling lungs, fighting to draw air under a battered rib cage. Its roving eye is both scared and pleading.

  “Okay,” I say. “It’ll be over soon.”

  I place the tip of my sword on the side of its head and slide the blade in. The relief of death shudders through its body.

  The sgàilean did this. A food offering for Nathara. It must be them, not her, who hunt the animals she eats. They are doing what they were created for: serving her family.

  There’s something I’ve been wondering ever since we arrived at the castle. It’s a terrible idea for so many reasons, but . . . what if there was a way we could take the sgàilean with us to Norveg? It’s drastic and terrifying and awful, but having an army with us would greatly increase our chances of success. They’d be a last resort, only to be used if all negotiations — and then threats — came to nothing. Could it be possible?

  The Badhbh wrote in his diary that the sgàilean can be both contained and controlled, but he is vague on the specifics. During her more lucid moments, Nathara does claim that they do what she tells them. But the sgàilean are also ruthless killers; the body in front of me is a clear reminder of that. It is so mutilated that I am swamped with anxiety. What if I did take them with us and they ended up doing that to me? Or to Agatha? Or, even worse, our entire clan? I can’t even consider the possibility unless I know they won’t hurt us. Our ancestors were originally from the mainland, so Scotian blood should run through our veins, but they left long ago.

  There’s only one way to know for sure.

  I shut down the doubts in my head and step away from the stag. With shaking hands, I place the torch on the ground by my feet. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I steady myself long enough to take three deep breaths, then I edge away from the light until my whole body is overtaken by darkness.

  “Come and get me,” I say. “I’m right here. Come and get me.”

  The whispering starts behind me. Before long, there is more, from all sides. I glance at the torch, lying just a few paces away. My whole body jolts, fighting the urge to leap back to the safety of the flames. There is still time. I resist. I need to do this. I can do this.

  The first shadow hits me like a gust of wind around my ankles. Sharp prickles race up my legs and then all at once I am consumed. They are across my chest, through my hair, down my back. What have I done? Goose bumps erupt all over my skin. My vision is obscured as hundreds of sgàilean soar across my face. They claw into my ears and invade
my nose. I clamp my mouth shut, even though I’m struggling to breathe. The whispering is so intense it blocks out all other senses. I need to get them off me. I need to get away, but I am trapped by their momentum. I can’t speak, I can’t move, I can’t see. Their hatred is overwhelming; they yearn for destruction, to rip, tear, kill, destroy.

  But they are not hurting me.

  I cling to that realization with the whole of my being. I curl my toes into the ground and repeat it to myself again and again until the clamor begins to mellow. The whispering dies to a low growl and the sgàilean drift away.

  As soon as the last one is gone, I scramble to the torch and rush back inside, bolting the door behind me. My legs are so weak, I collapse to the ground. Blood is thundering at the sides of my head. I can’t believe it. I survived. I stepped into a swarm of sgàilean and walked out again unharmed. Our blood protects us; my clan will be safe. It is all I needed to know.

  We’re taking the sgàilean with us.

  BEFORE DAWN, I CLIMB THE STEPS TO THE TOP OF THE tower and knock on Nathara’s door. There is no reply. I push it open. Nathara is awake and dressed, standing by the far window. I clear my throat.

  She spins around and shouts, “Why are you here? It’s not for you.” She picks up a small wooden box and throws it at my head. It misses by an inch and crashes into the wall behind me, spilling its contents onto the floor: rings, chains, earrings, bracelets, each one inset with precious stones.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, retreating to the safety of the corridor.

  “It’s okay, Calum, no need to be sad.”

  She crosses the room and meets me at the broken doorway with an odd smile.

  “We’re leaving soon,” I say. “Do you still want to come with us?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Neither are you. Daddy says don’t leave. He’ll be mad.”

  “We’ve been through this, remember? I need to go on the ship. I have to rescue my family.”

  She stares at me for a long time and then asks in a slow and precise manner, “Are the horses coming?”

  “They don’t like going on the water, but we’ll come back and see them soon.” When she folds her arms and scowls, I ask, “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind? That you don’t want to come?”

  She unfolds her arms and pats me on the top of my head. “Of course I’m coming. Don’t ever leave me again.”

  “Okay, I won’t. Good. Um . . .” Is this the right decision? Probably not. I just have to say it. “I want you to bring the shadows too.”

  “Shadows.”

  “Yes. The sgàilean. To help us fight the bad people.”

  As soon as I’ve said it out loud, I’m drowned in a new wave of doubt. I’m putting my trust — and our lives — in the hands of someone who can barely remember her own name.

  “Shadows,” she says again. She presses her teeth together and curls back her lips.

  “Can you make them help us?”

  “They’re always helping. They want it, they need it, they’ll help.”

  “Good. That’s good. But only if you can control them. I need you to prove that to me. You said before that you could?”

  “Of course,” she says. “If it didn’t break when you made me throw it.”

  She slides back into the room. Is it right for me to be using her this way? It’s her choice to come with us, but she has no real understanding of the danger that lies ahead. The sgàilean will protect her, I suppose, if she can make them come. I peer around the door frame and see her crouching over the contents of the jewelry box. She picks up a necklace and fastens it around her neck. Hanging from a simple chain is an onyx amulet that rests at the base of her throat. Its vast size is both striking and grotesque.

  “Stop shouting,” she says to me, even though I haven’t said anything. “We’re ready to go.” She drops onto all fours and scurries down the staircase. When we reach the main hall, she speeds straight past the others, heading for the far doors.

  “What’s happening?” asks Finn, who is on the final watch.

  “I’m not quite sure.”

  Nathara has the doors open in no time and, standing on two feet again, she strides through the courtyard. I follow her at a half-jog. A misty predawn light covers everything in spiderweb gray.

  “Wait!” says Finn. “The sgàilean —?”

  “It’s safe,” I say. “I think. . . .”

  He pauses, then runs out to join me. Nathara is now standing at the castle’s main entrance. The skewed door looms above her, at least four times her height. There is a lever on one side, attached to a pulley system, not dissimilar to the ones used on the enclave gates back on Skye. Nathara pulls on it with both hands. Nothing happens, so she adds her whole body weight. There is a high-pitched creak, and then the wooden door falls with a crash. Nathara steps onto the middle of it and begins to shout.

  “Sgàilean, thigibh a-steach! Thigibh a-steach!” She says the same words again and again. “Thigibh a-steach.”

  “Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good,” says Finn, his eyes darting back to the open door of the tower.

  “What? Why? What’s she saying?” I ask.

  “It’s a command. She’s telling them to go inside, or enter. She must mean the tower.” He turns to leave but is stopped in his tracks by the foul sound that is becoming increasingly familiar. Everything turns a few shades darker as the light is sucked away from around us.

  All my attention is on Nathara. Through the grim haze, she opens the onyx amulet like a locket. She holds it in front of her, repeating the command.

  “I don’t think she’s telling them to enter the tower,” I say.

  “Surely they can’t all —?”

  Finn’s question is drowned by the sea of whispers. Thousands of sgàilean drift out of the shadows, darker than night and as fluid as water. Finn grabs my arm. We are both transfixed. All at once, they descend on Nathara in a frenzied blizzard and then disappear into the depths of the stone. Nathara shuts the amulet and the whispering stops. The darkness fades. My mouth drops open.

  “That was incredible!” I say. “You didn’t tell me you could do that. I don’t even know how — This is incredible, Nathara, incredible!”

  For the first time, the tide is turning ever so slightly in our favor.

  “Shhhhh!” says Nathara. “Don’t cry or the birds will come and steal your tears.”

  I am not crying. I am invigorated. “It’s time to wake the others,” I say.

  Cray and Mór are already stirring when we enter the tower. I wake up Agatha and tell everyone what happened with Nathara and the amulet. I also tell them about my plan to take the sgàilean with us. Cray looks impressed when I describe how I walked among them last night. Agatha is unconvinced by the plan, and I have to explain several times how I know they won’t hurt us.

  Without wasting any time, we carry the supplies down to the harbor. The weather has turned wild again, and the wind seems determined to push me off the gangway as I stagger along, laden with goods. By midday, we are ready to go. We share one last meal, eating meat from the stag that the sgàilean brought last night. Finn spent the morning roasting it on a smoky fire. The memory of its wild eye lingers in my mind as I eat.

  “There’s plenty left over,” says Finn once we’ve finished. “If you soak it in seawater and leave it out to dry, it should last you the whole journey.”

  “Thanks,” I say. There is an empty pause, which no one wants to fill. “I guess it’s time to go, then.”

  “I’ll fetch Knútr,” says Cray, getting to his feet.

  “Are you ready to c-come with us?” Agatha asks Nathara.

  I expect Nathara to question where we are going again, or complain, or say something incomprehensible, but she does none of those things. She nods, picks up the one item she has decided to take with her — a tatty soft toy in the shape of a pine marten — and leads the way out of the tower. She pauses at the castle’s entrance, and doubt flashes across her face.

&nb
sp; “It’s all right,” Agatha reassures her. “Don’t be scared.”

  She takes Nathara’s hand and smiles at her. Nathara smiles back, and the two of them leave the castle like old friends going for a stroll.

  We follow them around the narrow cliff path to the start of the stone steps. There, I say goodbye to Bras, Sruth, and the other two bulls, rubbing each one in turn on the spot between their horns. I will miss the warmth and protection they provide so willingly. They lean over and watch us as we make our final descent.

  The pebbles at the bottom of the steps glint with flecks of silver and crunch against one another as we walk across them. The sound makes me think of grinding bones. When we reach the ship, Mór takes Knútr on board and ties him to the central mast.

  Before leaving the dock, Agatha asks Cray, “W-why don’t you want to come with us?”

  “I would if I could; you know that. But my people need me here.”

  “I’m going to — miss you,” she says.

  “I’ll miss you too, Agatha.” He smiles at her. A gentle smile, not his usual arrogant one. “Here, why don’t you take this? To remember me by.” He hands her his spear, which she accepts with wonder.

  “Thank you, C-Crayton, thank you — very much.”

  She leans in and kisses him full on the lips. Cray’s eyes open wide.

  “Well, that’s a first!” he says when she finally lets him go.

  Agatha grins. “And that was something to remember — me by.”

  Finn bursts into laughter.

  “I’m certainly not going to forget it any time soon,” Cray assures her.

  “Do I get one too?” asks Finn.

  “No,” says Agatha. “Only Crayton, because he’s my f-favorite.”

  “Fair enough,” says Finn.

  “But I do — like you and I will miss you, and Mór as well even though a-at first I thought I didn’t like her and — and then I did.”

  “You certainly know how to make a girl feel special,” says Mór as she swings down the gangplank, back onto the dock.