by Signe Pike
“But I cannot swim,” Brother Thomas said.
The commander raised a brow. “Then perhaps your god will teach you to float.”
“Please. I have sworn to protect her. I cannot leave this child until I have delivered her home,” Thomas said.
“The child needs no advocate here.”
“Keep me as a captive, then,” Brother Thomas declared. “Surely you can fetch a fair price for a Christian at market.”
“You believe you are valiant. You are not the first man to choose slavery over death.”
Thomas strained against his captors to stand upright. “Say what you will, but surely some payment is better than none. Drown me and you will have nothing.”
The commander glanced down at Angharad, still at his feet, then shook his head. “So be it.”
The men dropped Brother Thomas, and he fell in a heap.
“Thank you,” Angharad said, rushing to Thomas. “Thank you.”
That night, Angharad was given a sheepskin for warmth. When she spread it over herself and the culdee, the commander gave a hard look but did not take it away. She took to peering at the commander when he was not looking. The depths of his eyes held a nobility that spoke of honor. Unlike Brother Thomas, the commander could not sense her. When he chided an oarsman, he clapped the man upon the shoulder, and the two men became boys before her eyes. They were swimming across a clear summer river. They were jabbing at each other with short wooden swords. Angharad did not understand why it was easier to see when she looked at the Pictish commander. But she was glad for it. She began to think he was not so terrible after all.
“What is your name?” she asked him. “I would know what to call you.”
For this, she earned a frown. “My name is not yours to keep,” he said.
“What do you mean? Why ever not?”
“We Cruithni are not like you. There is power in a name. You give away your name and so give away your power. I will say no more about it.”
Angharad smiled, but the commander’s frown only deepened.
“Why do you smile?” he demanded.
Angharad only shrugged, for she already knew his name. She had asked the water, and it had been given.
The commander’s name was Talorcan.
The boat rocked gently, cresting and dropping over the skin of the waves as it followed the fleet. The Picts moved with such ease and pleasure on the water, Angharad felt safe. Sometimes she imagined she had buried the nightmare of each thing that had taken place since the day of the battle far behind in the fog, and when she wept, the ocean took her tears.
There is no end to the chamber we hold for you. Give them to us. We will take them away.
The next morning, Angharad found Talorcan standing by the prow.
“When autumn ends, the winter seas storm,” he said. “Each of these ships carries home booty. This was the last raid we will run until spring.”
“Are we traveling to your village, then?”
“Yes, my village.”
“How is it you came to speak my tongue?” she asked.
“All of us speak it. We learn when we are young.”
“But your other men do not speak to me.”
“Simply because we choose not to speak does not mean we are unable. Keep pestering me and you’ll find I’ll soon forget the way of it, too.”
“What is it like, your village?”
“I suppose you shall see.”
Angharad frowned, irritated by his answers. For, as if in a dream, she and Talorcan stood there already. She saw mountains and rivers where forts perched upon hilltops like so many eagle nests, and great herds of cattle roamed in thick tawny coats.
Angharad had never seen in this way, the way she was beginning to. Visions came readily, colors shone more vividly. It was as if being among the Picts sharpened her sight. But still all Angharad could think of was home.
“When we arrive to your village,” she ventured, “will you summon my father?”
“I cannot speak to your fate. It is not my choice to make.”
“But if I am not free to summon my father, I am a prisoner. Is this not true?”
Talorcan looked at her sidelong. “Go make use of yourself and fetch the oarsmen some ale. It will not be long now ’til we come ashore.”
A shout sounded, and Talorcan looked up. A vessel was cutting toward them, skirting the edge of the fleet. Another Pictish longboat. The hull was bedecked with round, clunky adornments that jostled and bounced with the waves. As the boat drew nearer, the vessel’s commander nodded, and Talorcan lifted a hand in greeting. Angharad covered her mouth in horror as the boat sailed past. More than a dozen human heads were strung along the boat, gruesome in their states of watery decay.
“A scout boat,” Talorcan said. “We do not ask questions of vessels that trespass in our waters.
“The men,” he reminded her, motioning to the ale barrels.
He passed Angharad the drinking horn, and she watched the scout boat disappearing as she lifted the spout on the barrel. Who were the men whose heads bounced like trophies? Bernicians? Or Dragon Warriors who’d been seeking escape? Ale splashed over the top of the horn, and Angharad closed the spout quickly, wiping her fingers on her tunic. She passed the drinking horn round, and the oarsmen nodded, taking turns at quenching their thirst while their benchmate kept the oar slowly churning. When they had finished, she found Brother Thomas.
“Talorcan said we shall soon be at shore.”
“Talorcan?” Brother Thomas raised a brow. “Is that his name? He told you as much?”
“Not precisely,” she said.
“Then how came you to know? The Picts do not give their names with such ease.”
Angharad hesitated, staring at her feet. “Are you angry?”
“Nay, Angharad. I would never chastise you for using your gift.”
“My mother would say it was not proper to pry. As would my uncle.”
Thomas looked out to sea. “I am certain they only mean to teach you how to wield your strengths with honor, Angharad. With wisdom.”
“But you do not mind?”
Thomas considered her. “There are some men I know who might say they do not believe in the power of a Keeper to lay down a curse. But I have seen much in my time. You must learn to make use of your gifts, Angharad. They will protect you. But no more curses. You must be careful with the words that you say.”
Angharad shivered at the thought of the Bernician woman, the squelch of Talorcan’s spear as he retrieved it from her eye. “I did not mean for her to die,” she whispered.
Brother Thomas saw the look upon her face. “Ah, Angharad. Who is to say? If you are sorry for her suffering, that is what matters. Do not puff yourself up. There are much larger forces at work. We are each of us quite small and unimportant. Even you. You remind me,” he said, gazing down at his bound wrists. “There was a great man named Patrick who spent much of his life as a slave. He was once a man of Strathclyde—perhaps you have heard of him?”
Angharad shook her head.
“Well. He was taken by the Scots to Scotia, the Westlands. He spent many winters among them. And though he was in bonds, he brought light to many people. If that is my path, I would not regret it.”
The bellow of a horn sounded from one of the boats up ahead.
“Ah,” Thomas said. “We must be arriving to the firth.”
Two timber towers upon stilts kept watch, one on either side of the gray harbor’s mouth. As they entered the firth, merchant ships and longboats waited at anchor. A few huts dotted the shore, earthen roofed roundhouses built out of stone, dead grasses like hair sprouting above wooden doors, and on little spits of sand sat round-bottomed coracles, stacked by their fishermen like beetles in a heap.
Soon Angharad spied a bustling quay, built at the head of a sandy crescent beach. Shouts of children echoed from shore, where fishermen tossed scraps to hovering gulls, looking up as the fleet returned from the sea.
“W
hat place is this?” Angharad asked.
Brother Thomas looked round. “I cannot say for certain, but I think it is Dùn Déagh.”
Angharad clung to Thomas as the oarmen guided the boat gently into the quay and women and children raced toward the ship. The raiders drew in their oars, tying off with efficiency, their movements betraying what their faces would not.
Home.
“Come,” Talorcan said, taking up Brother Thomas’s bonds.
Angharad’s heart was a fist as they stepped from the boat, her legs feeling wobbly after days upon water. The Picts stopped to stare while Talorcan hurried his captives through the crowd, the dock planks thundering beneath so many feet. Laughter sounded over the cry of swooping gulls as the raiders embraced their families, but they all turned to watch as Angharad and Brother Thomas passed, their eyes fixed upon his tonsure and the brown hood he wore—that of a monk. A woman with white hair stepped forward and spat, her spittle flecking Angharad’s cheek. Angharad recoiled, wiping her face. “Why do they despise him so?” she demanded, but Talorcan did not answer.
They followed a narrow road that led from the quay into a broad swath of woods. More stone huts with turf roofs sat here among the trees, and as the Picts retreated, ducking into their homes, only a cluster of children remained, running alongside the strangers in checked tunics and rich dresses of warm wool.
“Where do you take us?” Angharad asked, tugging at Talorcan’s short gray cloak.
This time he turned. “I would have rest from my journey. We will stay with a friend. Tomorrow I will take you to see the chieftain. He must be the one to decide your fate.”
“And what of Brother Thomas?”
“I will leave for Ceann Mòr on the morrow. It is the last fair of the season. We trade our slaves there.”
The children were singing and poking Thomas with a stick. Angharad opened her mouth to protest, but Talorcan said, “Hush now.”
They’d reached the wicker enclosure of a farmyard, and the children ceased their taunting to swarm round, watching as Talorcan reached into his satchel and drew out a handful of treasures. Pottery bits and speckled pebbles, swirling white shells. He sorted through his collection with a matchmaker’s gaze, placing them in the children’s open palms. When the last trinket had been taken, the children ran off, fists clamped round their treasures, and Talorcan muttered something in Pictish under his breath.
They pushed through the wicker farm gate. Across the neatly kept yard, pigs lolled in a pool of afternoon sun, while goats chomped on their hay, yellow eyes frisky. The bee box lay dormant, but Angharad could feel their furry amber bodies, their black eyes growing sleepy in the pockets of their hive. The need-garden still burst with good autumn crops—parsnips and knobbly white carrots. Wild onions waved their fingers in the wind. Beyond the stone hut, Angharad spotted an elder tree and another kind of garden. Yarrow stalks had browned, but it brought to mind Cadzow, and the sight struck her with longing. “A healer lives here,” she said.
Talorcan only nodded, then turned to Brother Thomas. “You do not speak,” he said.
A woman called a greeting from beyond the hut door, and as Talorcan opened the door, a dirty little terrier burst over the threshold, wagging its tail, frantic with barks. As it chased round Angharad’s legs in tight circles, her mouth somehow remembered the shape of a smile. She squatted to stroke him and was rewarded with licks, but the terrier’s breath was like moldered clothing.
Inside, the air was dense, smelling of stew. A woman with red hair bound in a plait stood before a cauldron. She looked up as they entered and set down her spoon, sizing up her visitors. Her eyes were green and spaced wide, like a cat’s. Flames or waves curled along either side of her neck. Talorcan said something, and the woman spoke back.
“Talorcan,” Angharad asked softly, “what did she say?”
“I told him you look like a Briton,” the woman said. Her mouth turned down at the corners. Looking like a Briton was not a good thing.
“Oh,” Angharad said, looking down at her feet.
“Is it true, then, you’re a princess?”
“Yes. Or… once I was. I was training with my uncle to become a Wisdom Keeper.”
The woman tilted her head. Angharad looked back unabashedly, only to be struck by the feeling that she had been poked from inside. Then the woman frowned and turned back to her soup pot, tossing in a handful of herbs. Angharad’s stomach twisted in hunger.
“Does the chieftan know she is here?” The woman spoke in Brythonic for Angharad’s benefit.
“Yes. I sent word I will bring her on the morrow.”
“And then you are off?”
Talorcan nodded.
“Very well. You may sleep there, princess.” She gestured to a thick pile of skins beside the hearth, but from her tone, she might as well have added “you dirty grain rat.”
“With my friend,” Angharad said.
The woman cast her green eyes distastefully at the culdee. “He can bed with the pigs. And if you don’t favor that, princess, you may bed with the pigs as well.”
Angharad felt Brother Thomas behind her, urging her to let well enough alone. She was so very hungry. She would give him a fleece to ensure he kept warm. The woman stirred the cauldron one last time, portioning stew into wooden bowls that Talorcan carried to the nearby table, moving aside a collection of dried plants. When the woman handed him the fourth, their eyes met, and the woman gave a slight shake of her head.
“The priest eats outside,” Talorcan said.
Brother Thomas went willingly as Talorcan took up his bindings and shackled him to the pig enclosure. “Be thankful you do not have to fight them for your food,” Angharad heard Talorcan say, as the pigs caught the smell and began thrusting their snouts against the wall. Angharad looked down at her stew guiltily, but her body was an animal, raging to eat.
The stew was thick with hunks of beef and little medallions of white carrot, and there was hot bread and slabs of creamy golden butter. The woman poured heather mead into three ceramic cups, dousing Angharad’s with a generous splash of water. Talorcan and the woman ate in silence awhile, watching her, before the woman spoke up, setting down her spoon. “You called Talorcan by his name when first you came in. How was it you came to know it? There is no chance you heard it on the boat—our men are most careful amongst strangers.”
Angharad swallowed her stew, wondering if she should tell the truth. She did not know this woman and did not like how she’d prodded her insides. But something about the farm felt like a dream. And the woman was a healer, or at least she seemed to be so.
“The sea told me,” she said.
“The sea.”
“Yes.”
The woman smiled at Talorcan. “It seems your god was quite ready to betray your confidence,” she said. Talorcan was not amused. “Tell me,” the woman went on, watching Angharad’s face. “I know you are but a girl, and far from your home. But you must know there are others who share your gift. Women. Here among the First People, you are at the beginning of it all. Our temples are among the oldest and most far famed in the land. I could take you to meet such women. There is a temple at Fortingall, not far from Ceann Mòr.”
Talorcan shot her a look of warning. “The girl is a Briton and a noble. The chieftain must decide.”
“Elufed is her nain; you told me yourself.” The woman’s look was full of meaning. “We may not call this child a Pict by custom, but the blood is in her.”
“She is valuable. We can trade her. I’m certain he will agree.”
“Oh? And I believe he’ll agree with me,” she said, green eyes lit with challenge. “She is valuable in ways you cannot measure.”
Their bickering made Angharad’s head spin. “I want to go home!” she cried.
The woman frowned. “You are a child. You cannot know what you want.”
Angharad could no longer contain the frustration and helplessness that stormed within her. She let out a scream, primal and ear
-shattering, full of all of her pain. In the silence that followed, the two of them looked at her, startled.
Brother Thomas shouted from the farmyard, “What’s happened? Angharad? Angharad, answer me!”
Talorcan’s face darkened, and the woman lifted a hand to settle him. “Go and tell the priest the child is all right,” she said.
Talorcan muttered but did her bidding. The woman came round the table, sitting beside Angharad. “You need healing beyond any I might offer,” she said.
Angharad did not look at her. Her bottom lip began to tremble.
The woman reached carefully, tipping Angharad’s chin so that she might not mistake the look upon her face. Sadness.
“You need healing,” she said again. “And I know you do not wish to be parted from your priest.”
“He is my protector,” Angharad said. “He has sworn to help me find my father.”
“He will be sold. There is no changing his fate,” she said firmly. “But the women I speak of—the Samhain fair is not far from their fortress. Come with me there. They can help you. You carry a great burden, princess. If you do not learn how to wield it, I assure you, you will break.”
Angharad looked down at the thorns yet embedded in her hands, black specks of memory mingling with her blood. “I want my mother,” she said. She was tired, so tired, like a salmon battling upstream. She shook her head, unable to draw herself up from the sinking she felt.
The woman spoke gently. “If you were training to become a Keeper, princess, you gave up your mother long ago.”
A tear trailed Angharad’s cheek.
“Come upriver to Ceann Mòr,” the woman continued. “At the very least, it will give you a few days longer with your friend. You will be able to see what becomes of him. Stay here and you will never know.”
Angharad looked up. “These women you speak of, you say they might help me. But could they not also help me return to my home?”
The woman looked at the table as if considering how to answer. “Yes,” she said at last. “If you go to them, I believe they will help you find your way home.”