Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “I’m going out,” Creidhe said as calmly as she could. “I need my bag, and I want to see my friends. Thank you for—” She could not decide how to finish this. For guarding me? She stepped over to the doorway, but the woman was there before her, alarmingly quick for one so old, her arms stretched out to bar the way.

  “I want to go out.” Creidhe’s heart was pounding. “My friends, I need to speak to them.”

  The crone shook her head, making the same gesture as before: Wrap your hair. Of course, thought Creidhe, she could simply push her way past, but something in the dark, beady eyes made it clear that would not be a wise move. She had not forgotten those men with their assessing gaze and their spears. Creidhe retreated to the pallet, took the cloth, wrapped it around her head loosely. Was it really only days since she had worn her best blue linen with the border of silver braid, and danced at a wedding with silk ribbons in her hair?

  “May I go now?” she asked quietly, doing her best to look demure and contrite, though a slow anger was building in her.

  The crone did not reply, but gripped Creidhe’s arms, turning her around. The old hands, hard as tree roots, shoved her hair up under the scarf, every bright thread out of sight, and fastened it in place with alarming bone pins drawn from the depths of a pocket. In the front, the scarf was tugged down, and stray wisps of hair pushed back under it. Creidhe stood silent, a flush of indignation rising to her cheeks. The words were on her lips, Do you know whose daughter I am? but this was a far island, a wild place of the utmost margins. Here they had never heard of the brave and noble warrior Eyvind who had made peace in the Light Isles, nor the wise and lovely Nessa who had sustained the hopes and identity of her people through the darkest time. To these folk, Creidhe and her companions were just travelers washed up in the wrong place: a nuisance. She must be grateful for what help was offered them. She was warm and dry, and had slept a little. And now the ancient one stepped aside from the doorway and let her out.

  Creidhe crossed a small yard where scrawny chickens were foraging in the mud and, following the sound of voices, entered a larger hut. Men were gathered around a central hearth. Thorvald and Sam were eating. At least, Sam had a mutton bone in his hand, and his mouth full; there was a platter on the bench by Thorvald, but Creidhe saw from the way he looked, pallid, distant, that he still fought the crippling headache, and would be unable to contemplate food. She had learned to read him very well over the years since childhood. By now he would be near blinded by the pain but doing his best not to show any weakness in front of the small group of island men who had gathered to share this evening meal and take a look at the strangers suddenly arrived in their midst. And there was another thing; she’d thought of it when those three met them on the pathway from the shore. From now on, Thorvald would not be able to look at a man of middle years without thinking, Are you my father? Are you Somerled? By all the ancestors, this would be a tortured journey indeed if he insisted on their silence and maintained his own until he was quite sure. But that was Thorvald’s way; he had never sought the straight and easy path.

  On the crude hearth burned a small fire fueled by animal dung. Creidhe walked across to stand by it, deciding she would not be intimidated by the wild look of the folk gathered here, nor the fact that there was not a single woman among them. Perhaps this was merely a gathering place for fishermen; their real settlements were probably farther away, in more hospitable parts of the islands, hidden valleys, rolling grasslands like those of the Light Isles. She shivered, remembering the sheer cliffs, the pounding waves, the high, steep peaks they had seen from the Sea Dove. These men’s closed faces, their guarded eyes, told of a life of struggle, an existence carved out in the face of the elements. All of a sudden, home seemed a very long way away. Maybe she was just a little frightened. This would not do at all; she was here to help Thorvald, not hold him back.

  “Good evening.” She made her tone courteous and confident as she spread out her hands to warm them at the fire. “Thank you for providing us with shelter.”

  There was a silence, as if she had said something either quite astonishing or entirely inappropriate. Then one man turned to Thorvald and muttered something about food and drink.

  “You want something to eat, Creidhe?” Thorvald asked in the constrained voice the headache imposed on him.

  Creidhe stared at the man who had spoken. “Thank you,” she said. “A small amount only. I’ve been ill.” Indeed, she felt the weakness in her legs, the dizziness in her head now.

  “Here,” said Sam, moving along the bench to make room for her. “Sit down, you look washed out.” He glanced at the scarf wrapped around her head, but made no comment.

  “Thank you.” She sat; the young man on the other side edged away like a nervous animal, and the one standing behind moved too, as if she would pass some malady on to them. Perhaps she smelled bad; lacking water for washing, there wasn’t much to be done about that. Every man in the chamber was watching her; that strange expression was on all their faces, as if the smallest move she made were of intense interest to them. The older man, Einar, had ladled some meat from a stew pot into a bowl; he did not pass it to Creidhe, but gave it to Thorvald with a roll of the eyes in her direction.

  “Here,” Thorvald said, putting it in her hands. His eyes defied her to mention the headache. She held her tongue. The stew was gray and beaded with fat, and there was nothing by way of a spoon, not even a hunk of bread to scoop with. Still they watched her.

  “Better eat up,” Sam advised. “They say we’re moving on in the morning. Got to visit some chief; find out where we can get wood for the Sea Dove. These fellows are just passing through on their way to a place called Council Fjord. Lucky we came in when there were folk around. Here.”

  He rummaged in a pocket and brought out a little spoon carved from whalebone; he had ever been a resourceful fellow. Creidhe ate in silence, feeling the pressure of so many eyes on her. There seemed no reason for such discourtesy.

  “Tell me,” Thorvald said after a while, “how many folk live on these isles, and where? You speak as we do; we must share ancestors. How long have you dwelt here, and where did your people come from?”

  Einar was sitting opposite Thorvald, using a finger to scour the last of the meat juices from his platter. “You have many questions,” he observed, frowning.

  “I don’t wish to offend,” Thorvald said carefully. “If I have kinfolk on these isles I’d welcome the opportunity to greet them, that’s all. I’m sure my friends here feel the same. Have any of you come from the place called Orkneyjar, also known as the Light Isles? Are there men here from Norway? From Ulster?”

  “None of our business, of course,” muttered Sam, tearing the last shreds of meat from his bone. “But interesting. Good meal, this; best I’ve had in days. How’s the fishing in these waters? Tricky tides, I’ll bet. What do you take mostly? Cod? Redfish?”

  Several men began to speak at once; this topic, apparently, was both safe and interesting. In no time at all, Sam was the center of a lively conversation that included much waving of hands, though there were no smiles; there was a universal grimness about these men. Creidhe applied herself to her meal. The standard of the cooking fell far short of her own, but she could hardly afford to be fussy. She just hoped she would keep it down.

  “Thorvald,” she hissed under the talk of boats and nets and winds. “You look terrible. Tell them you need to lie down.”

  “I’m fine.” He was seated near her, leaning back against the wall with eyes closed. His face was the color of goat’s cheese.

  “Then I’ll tell them. You’re being stupid.”

  “I’m fine, Creidhe. Eat your supper.”

  The meat was rich and greasy; perhaps the sheep here carried an extra layer of fat to help them cope with the cold, which even now penetrated this small chamber with probing fingers. Warm gown, woolen shawl, headscarf and sheepskin boots could not alleviate Creidhe’s shivering. She was thirsty, terribly thirsty. There was a j
ug on that far table, perhaps water, but in the din of voices nobody was going to hear a polite request for a drink. She started to get up, to fetch it for herself, but there was a lad in front of her now, the one who had moved away before, and he was extending his hand shyly, offering a cup. His hand was shaking so much the water slopped over the side; what was it about her that caused such strange reactions?

  “Thank you,” Creidhe said, smiling at him and taking the cup. The youth ducked his head, a fleeting grin flashing across his features, and scuttled back to a corner. If the others could ask questions, Creidhe decided, then so could she.

  “Where are the women of your community?” She addressed this to Einar, who had not joined in the talk of fishing, but had kept his attention on Thorvald and herself, almost as if fearing they might run away, though there was indeed nowhere to run to. “Do they not come to supper with you in the evenings?”

  Einar’s hard eyes looked into hers. He shook his head, then turned back to Thorvald.

  “Tomorrow,” he said curtly. “Tomorrow we walk to Brightwater. The Ruler will meet us there. It’s for him to answer your questions, not I.”

  “The Ruler?” Creidhe asked. “What ruler?”

  Even to that, she did not receive a direct answer; the fellow still addressed himself doggedly to Thorvald, as if she were invisible.

  “The Ruler of the Isles,” he said gravely. “Leader of the Long Knife people. All strangers must be seen by him; he will decide your fate.”

  It was a measure of the grip the headache had on him that Thorvald gave no visible reaction to this. It was Sam who sat forward, frowning, talk of nets and tides abruptly abandoned.

  “Fate? What do you mean by that? All we want’s a couple of pieces of wood and a roof over our heads while we do the fixing. We’ll pay for it, as I told you; by work, it’d have to be. Whatever you need doing, we’ll give you a hand. Nobody’s talking about fate here.”

  “That is a strange name, the Long Knife people,” observed Creidhe. Her shivering didn’t seem to be stopping, and it was not entirely due to the cold. “Who are they?” An instant later the answer came to her, for there had been a certain pride in the way the odd name was spoken, and there were the weapons they wore in their belts, every one of them, for all this seemed no more than a fishermen’s outpost. With their dour expressions and scarred skin, these islanders were entirely suited to such a title.

  “This ruler,” Sam put in. “Got a name, has he?”

  Einar spat neatly on the earthen floor; he had been picking the remnants of mutton flesh from his teeth with a splinter of bone. “Ask your questions tomorrow. Early start; you can sleep alongside us. Steep climb; can the girl do it?”

  It was becoming impossible to disregard the fellow’s rudeness. “If you are referring to me,” Creidhe told him in icy tones, rising to her feet, “I have ears and a tongue of my own and am well able to use both. I’m quite capable of walking wherever Thorvald and Sam go, and have every intention of doing so. Now, my kinsman here has a bad headache and needs to lie down. And we want to go back down to the boat, to fetch our things—”

  “No!” Einar said sharply. “Not safe for you—” He sprang to his feet and took a step toward her. He may not have intended to lay hands on her, but she shrank back, and at the same instant Sam interposed his large form between them. Thorvald had opened his eyes, but seemed too dazed by pain to realize what was happening.

  “Now, then,” Sam said levelly, “no need for that. Different lands, different ways, I know. But we don’t take kindly to men who threaten womenfolk, back in the Light Isles. You’ll keep your hands off Creidhe if you know what’s good for you. Descended from royal blood, she is: a lady.”

  The islander’s attention had been captured by the action, if not the words. His eyes were on Sam’s square jaw and sturdy body, his well-muscled arms and look of determination under the strip of stained cloth that still bound his head wound. “You a fighting man?” he queried.

  Creidhe saw Sam open his mouth to answer, no, he was just a fisherman and wanted no fight with anyone, but he did not get the chance. Thorvald was on his feet, a hand against the wall to steady him.

  “Of course we are,” he announced with a firmness quite at odds with his alarming pallor. “Where we come from, no lad reaches twelve years without a mastery of spear and sword. An island people without the ability to defend itself can expect only annihilation.”

  “Good,” said Einar after a considerable pause, during which several conflicting expressions passed over Sam’s usually placid features. “That will please the Ruler.”

  The time seemed right to press what little advantage there was, though Thorvald’s words had troubled Creidhe; to call them exaggeration was an understatement. She summoned up her courage. “I want my bag, the one I had in the boat. And we need a bed for Thorvald, he’s ill. And a promise we’ll be kept safe until we get to this—this—”

  “Brightwater, wasn’t it?” Thorvald supplied the name in a voice that was no more than a whisper. His earlier effort seemed to have drained his last strength.

  “Sleep,” the fellow said, pointing to the far end of the chamber where a doorway opened into a further space within the hut. Some of the men were already retiring there; their yawns suggested they’d had a long day. One was damping down the fire. The cold room grew even chillier. That old woman was back, standing by the outer doorway like some messenger of Bone Mother, with her sunken eyes and knotted fingers. “Sleep,” said the man again, jerking his head toward the crone. “Safe here.” It was a kind of answer, but not enough.

  Creidhe clutched at Sam’s arm. “Sam, ask him! I need my things.” It sounded girlish and petulant, and she did not want to be a nuisance; her role was to help Thorvald, not hinder. It wasn’t the comb that really mattered, the clean clothing, the useful bits and pieces. It was the Journey; she could not let these people set their hands on it.

  “Don’t fret, Creidhe,” Sam said. “I’ve no intention of going to bed without checking on the Sea Dove. It’s light enough, this time of year. I’ll bring up what you need if I can find it.”

  True to his word, he was back not so much later, at the door of the little hut housing Creidhe and her grim guardian. Before Sam could so much as open his mouth, the old woman snatched the bag out of his hands and shooed him away.

  By the flicker of the same tiny lamp that had lit the ancient one’s steady spinning, Creidhe spread out her sodden clothing, her roll of wools and needles, her other small possessions to dry as best they could on the empty bed-shelves. The Journey seemed unscathed, and was perfectly dry. The other things were a mess, and so was her hair. Still, she must be glad her belongings had survived at all; if she had not jammed them tightly into her hiding place, they’d surely have been lost in the storm.

  She struggled to draw the comb through her disheveled locks. It seemed to her that teasing out the implacable knots was a little like trying to get useful information from these odd, tight-lipped folk with their strange approach to conversation. She knew the old woman could understand her, just as the men had. Yet the crone only muttered and frowned, and Einar seemed to believe women quite lacking in the skill of comprehension. He had been quick enough to anger when she had challenged him. As for the others, their sidelong, nervous glances annoyed her almost as much as Einar’s rudeness. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it a bit, and when they got to see this Ruler of the Isles, probably another jumped-up fisherman, she would tell him so straight out, Thorvald or no Thorvald. Her father had taught her honesty was the best way; her mother honored courage and a forthright manner. How could she aid Thorvald’s cause if she were alternately ogled and intimidated?

  “Ouch!” Creidhe winced as the comb caught another tangle. The job was nearly done; in the morning she would wear the headscarf without argument, just to stop the wind putting all the knots back in. She yawned. What a godforsaken place this was. It was unthinkable that Thorvald’s father would actually have chosen to s
tay here, if he could have sailed anywhere else at all. The people were as capricious and strange as the winds and tides, impossible to read. She hoped they would find Somerled soon, or at least learn what had become of him. There was nothing in the world would induce her to remain on these islands an instant longer than she must.

  A steep climb: it was certainly that, in parts, and a long walk. Thorvald’s head was clear this morning, and he thought he made a passable show of strength, forcing himself to match the brisk pace of their minders, although he could see how hard it was for Creidhe in those ill-fitting boots. To survive here, it seemed to Thorvald, one must earn these folks’ respect quickly. They understood winds, tides and fish, and they understood strength: the only thing that had impressed them so far had been Sam’s quick defense of Creidhe. Creidhe. By all the gods, Thorvald thought as he watched her dogged, white-faced struggle to keep up with the line of men climbing the precipitous, slippery track, what had possessed her to come here? Premonitions and vague feelings were no basis for such a journey. Surely she knew that; she had ever been a practical girl. Her presence here would be more hindrance than help; she was going to cause all manner of complications with these islanders, he could see it. Everything in their manner screamed their unease with her presence, and worse still, he could tell she was frightened, for all her show of confidence. He knew her well; he had seen the change in her eyes when the fellow, Einar, would have touched her. Wasn’t this hard enough already, with the Sea Dove smashed and themselves under armed escort? How could he get on with what must be done here if he had constantly to be worrying about Creidhe?

  They halted on a small patch of level ground near the top of a particularly steep section of track. On one side the slope fell away, on the other it rose sharply. Rangy island sheep grazed there, heedless of the long drop to the base, though they stayed downhill of their lambs. The men brought out water skins and passed them around; some squatted by the track, some sat on the rocks, easing their legs. In the distance, far ahead, a plume of smoke arose. Below them a broad, glinting lake spread, wide and peaceful, under the light sky, its margins rising steeply to grass-clad fells and bare, craggy peaks. They had climbed high enough to see far to the west, where a long, narrow bay seemed to cut between dark cliffs. At its mouth were more islands; a small, improbably steep one not far out, and another, more distant, which seemed to wear a shawl of cloud even on this clear spring day.