Nessa nodded soberly, rising to her feet. She gave a little bow of formal thanks; although this was her own daughter, the respect due to a wise woman must be demonstrated. “Thank you,” she said. Nessa would not give in to tears. The news had been mixed; she would ponder it awhile and see what insights came to her.
“Thank you,” said Margaret, thinking she had never seen her son weep, not even as a small child. It seemed to her such scant news merely made the heart ache more painfully; she would almost rather have none at all.
Eanna spent the night with her family. In the morning she returned to her own place, a tiny stone dwelling in the hills, set in a fold of the land where one wind-bent willow grew by an outcrop of stone that somewhat resembled a gnarled old woman. A streamlet trickled close by her door; her fireplace set among flat stones overlooked a green-robed valley and, farther down, a glinting, circular lake. Eanna made up her fire and sat awhile, quiet under the wide bowl of the summer sky. Her mother had laden her with provisions; fine bere bread, fresh vegetables, a round of sheep’s cheese, a sack of beans. Eanna’s little cat had been quite put out that she had spent a night away from home. Somewhat mollified by a sliver of cheese, he now sat on the rocks close by her like a smoky shadow, washing his face. Margaret had given the young priestess a warm cape of her own making, plain gray with a narrow border of blue, little dogs and flowers.
Eanna considered her vision. What she had told them was exactly what she had seen; one did not falsify the ancestors’ wisdom. On the other hand, there were parts of it she had not told. Her mother’s health must be safeguarded; Nessa must carry her child to term, and even then there were risks, for she was well past the best age for safe delivery. It would be important to have Creidhe home in time. Eanna might say what prayers they needed, enact the ritual suitable for the occasion. She might call on the ancestors to help. But, when it came to it, what would really be needed was strong, expert hands and a calm, confident voice to keep control of the situation. Creidhe’s hands, Creidhe’s voice. And whether she would come in time, or whether she would come at all, Eanna did not know. She only knew the young man she had seen, sitting at her sister’s knee as if he, too, were an infant entranced by a bedtime story, had had a very odd look about him, a look that chimed with her own memory of childhood tales. The long, bony hands, the pallor, the strange, deep eyes that seemed to mirror the liquid mystery of the ocean: were not these the marks of the Seal Tribe?
NINE
Recognition. Sacrifice. Expiation.
MONK’S MARGIN NOTE
Stay close by me,” Keeper warned her as they made their way down the steep hillside toward the cove. “You must not go out alone here, not until after the hunt. It is not safe.”
“But you said—” Creidhe began, scrambling to keep up with his long stride.
“No danger from others. I will protect you. It is the traps, those that are set for the enemy. There is not time for you to learn them all. After the hunt they are dismantled; new traps next season, so the enemy cannot remember. I will show you.”
And show her he did, while Small One, apparently aware of where these sudden dangers lay and how to stay away from them, wandered about in his doglike form, sniffing at bushes and stones, racing after birds, and generally behaving just like a small hound enjoying an outing on a summer’s day. The moment of changing back, Creidhe had not seen; she supposed that eventually she would get used to it, this slipping from one form to another when the time seemed right. There was a wonder in it outside her experience, and she wished her sister Eanna could see it. Eanna, being a priestess, might have answers.
It was hardly warm; the westerly wind whipped the sea to scudding whitecaps and set Creidhe’s long hair streaming. All the same, the sun showed himself, rising high to remind them how close it was to midsummer, and the hunt.
Traps. So many traps, ingenious, clever, cruel: she had not imagined this stark landscape could conceal such pitfalls for the unwary. Creidhe blessed the ancestors for depositing her here unconscious and unaware, so she had not attempted to find her way across the shore, up the hill, into the shelter of cave or hollow. For the truth was, there was nowhere safe, save those precise ways along which Keeper led her. There were hidden pits floored with spikes of sharpened bone; there were sudden drops from ledges that appeared quite safe, but were in fact kept slippery with coatings of some fishy-smelling substance; there were rocks suspended from long cords, which an unwary step on a particular point released to come hurtling toward the hapless victim, perfectly placed to crush his skull. How these worked she was not quite sure, and she did not ask. Keeper took her up by a place where puffins nested, to show a fine view of the big holm to the west. The waves washed in fiercely here: beyond that islet was a straight view to the farthest margin of the world. They climbed back down to the rocky hillside near the narrow bay. Tunnels pierced the ground on which they stood, a network of shadowy passages, some natural, some enhanced by the work of man. So far they had observed no sign of the other tribe on their wanderings.
“There are many underground ways,” Keeper told her gravely, “some safe, some perilous. Last season, this where we stand”—motioning to an opening between the rocks before them, wide enough to admit a man—“led to a sheltered cave where three warriors might be concealed together. At low tide there is an escape at the other end, allowing a retreat and regrouping. They learned this last time and made use of it.”
“And this time?” This time would be different; the grim set of his jaw made that clear.
“This time, when the last man enters, the rock shifts; that can be done by an adjustment, a lever, which is worked from above. It traps them within. They will find the lower entry narrower now, the right size for a rabbit or gull to pass through. Of course, it still admits the tide.”
“I see,” said Creidhe, shivering. Keeper’s eyes were cool; evidently this sort of thing was quite routine for him. What kind of world had she strayed into?
“There are more,” Keeper said. “Up the mountain, behind the waterfall, along the cliffs. Where we came down, many places where the ground will give way under a careless foot; on the shore, many spots where rocks and sea will trap a man; on the hillside, paths that lead to nowhere, ways where the lightest mist will shroud all safe exits. They are fools to come here. There is no defeating the Isle of Clouds.”
“What about the others? What about—?”
“I have more to show,” he said, taking her hand. He was looking up toward the crags that crowned the island. “When you see, you will believe that you are protected here, you and Small One. There is still doubt in your eyes, Creidhe. You should not doubt me. I am true to my promises.”
They walked up the slope, Keeper slowing his pace to accommodate her. Her legs ached; she was not yet recovered from her illness and what had gone before.
“Keeper?”
“What is it? You wish to rest?”
“No, I can go on. I wondered, have you a boat of your own? For fishing perhaps? Do you ever leave the island?”
He smiled; there was no gladness in it. His eyes were bleak. “For fishing, I need no boat,” he said. “But I have boats. I do not keep them here, in sight. They are little used. I cannot leave the island.”
“Because of him?” Creidhe watched as Small One dug in the earth by a low-growing bush, pursuing some scuttling creature. “Is there nowhere safe for him? The northern islands? Or right away, some place such as my own homeland? This is so—it is so isolated; you seem so alone.”
“You are here now.”
“Yes, but—” She did not finish this. To say, I won’t be here forever, would be tempting fate. She could not say, I’ll only be here until Thorvald comes for me. That quite probably was false. If she knew Thorvald, by now he was embroiled in some ambitious scheme of his own and had completely forgotten her. Sam might come; Sam wouldn’t forget.
“I cannot take him.” Keeper had stopped in his tracks, his eyes on her, his voice almost angry. “No
where is safe for him. Nowhere but here. All want him. Asgrim’s folk, to trade away, so they can win peace. The Unspoken, because of what he is. The brothers, the Christians, they are the only ones who remain outside, the only ones who ever tried to stand against Asgrim. But in the end they are powerless. This is the only refuge. We stay here, my brother and I.”
“Forever?”
“Forever. That was my promise.”
Around the hill on the northern side, where it seemed all was stark cliff and rocky pinnacle and knife-beaked, swooping birds, he led her to a network of caves and crannies, a hidden place no invader could possibly discover, its entrance was so dangerous, so marginal. Climbing down to the opening terrified her, but she would not say so, not with Keeper’s hand holding hers, leading her, his feet nimble and sure on the slick surface of the rock ledge, showing the way. It was dark inside, but not so dark that she could not see what was stored on numerous shelves hewn from the walls of this narrow, shadowy cavern. Here was an armory fit for a seasoned battle troop, if somewhat outside the mode of the weaponry her father and his men employed in the Light Isles. There were many narrow throwing spears, apparently carved from bone, with grips of woven twine cunningly braided and knotted, decorated with tufts of feathers. There were arrows of a similar make, and also some of pine, which he must have salvaged. The bows, she thought, came from the Long Knife people, for they were of a more familiar type, of fine seasoned hardwood, doubtless a gift from the sea, since trees grew sparsely in these wind-harried islands. Knives were set in a rack of driftwood lashed with rope; each was in a sheath of leather or padded wool or some other material, and when Keeper drew one out to show her, she saw how the iron gleamed, with not a trace of rust. Her father would have been impressed; the proper care of weapons was something he valued. There were no hewing axes here. As a Wolfskin’s daughter, Creidhe recognized that most of this armory consisted of weapons to be used at a certain range. She did not see a sword, or a shield, or a thrusting spear.
“Not so many left here now,” Keeper said casually, testing the edge of a knife with his finger. A drop of blood appeared. “I have moved most of them out, since the hunt is near. It is necessary to have sufficient in place, here and there, since Asgrim’s men may attack from different quarters. Spears, darts, stones. Too late to move them once his men land on the island.”
“I see,” Creidhe said after a moment. “What are those?” She had noticed another kind of missile, something akin to an arrow but longer, and barbed, with the bone tip discolored somewhat. She reached out to indicate what she meant, and Keeper grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand sharply back. Her heart thumped. She realized he had the strength to snap her arm.
“No!” he hissed. “A touch will kill. I’m sorry. I hurt you. Here, show me.” He released his grip, taking her hand in both of his, touching the wrist. His palms were callused, the fingers roughened, but his touch was gentle. “Are you injured?”
“No,” she whispered, her heart still racing.
“It is poison. You frightened me.”
“I’m not hurt. It was stupid to think of touching them. Keeper, you have enough weapons here for a whole army.” There was a question that followed this, if one were to be logical about things, but that was not the question she asked. “Where is Small One?”
“He will not enter here. He fears iron.”
“Oh.” She looked into his strange eyes, eyes in which the unfathomable depths of the ocean could be glimpsed. It was dim in the cavern, but his eyes were bright. They seemed to bear their own light within, changeable and perilous. “What about you? You are his brother; his kinsman, anyway. Does not cold iron make you, too, uneasy?”
He was still holding her hand, his fingers warm and strong. Common sense told Creidhe she should be frightened, and she was, but not of him.
“I would be lying if I said no. My blood shrinks from this metal. But I am Keeper, warrior and guardian. Five times I have survived the hunt; I have been true to my vow. I cannot afford to give in to my fear, for Asgrim would soon find and exploit such a weakness. So I make use of the weapons they leave behind. I have taught myself to hold them strongly, to cast them as if I were not afraid.”
“I’m finding it harder all the time to believe that Asgrim is your father.”
“I wish it were not so. But it is true. I am his son, as Sula was his daughter. It were better that such a man never take a wife, nor engender children. I will kill him. This summer, next summer, the one after. I will make an end of him for what he has done.”
Creidhe felt suddenly cold. His voice had been flat and final, as if he were merely setting out the inevitable. “I’d like to go back now,” she said quietly. “I’m getting tired.”
“Come.” Keeper turned, still holding her hand. “This way: we go out here, along the far ledge. Keep hold; look up, not down. A quick way back to the shelter, then you should rest. Too much for you.”
“I’m all right.” But she wasn’t, not really; especially not when they edged along a narrow shelf in the rocks—that part was all right, she knew he would not let her fall—and Keeper pointed ahead and upward, and she saw the skulls. She stared, and blinked: they were still there. For all the myriad birds that thronged the ledges of the northern cliff face, jostling for room, this was one place where no gull roosted, where not a chick sat fattening on the nest, nor a parent dived with succulent fish in beak. Yet there were shelves here, many of them; safe, deep niches and cracks offering sheltered purchase. There was no room for birds. Each corner of space, each nook and cranny was already occupied by the clean-picked, hollow-eyed skull of a man. They sat in rows, in twos and threes, here one alone, here a pair leaning drunkenly together. Some were old, crumbling, toothless; some were newer, a tuft of hair, a patch of dried-up skin adhering to the naked bone. One wore a leather cap with ear flaps, though there was little left for it to shelter. Many bore signs of injury: a gaping split between the eye sockets, a smashed cheek, jaws that met less than cleanly. Creidhe stood stock-still on the ledge, transfixed. There were so many, too many to count. All had been set here, gazing out across the sea. Trophies. Markers. A testament to the years of survival.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, closing her eyes. Placed here one by one, season by season, hunt by hunt. Placed here by a man who walked between traps as sure-footed as a creature of instinct; who traversed cliff and cave as easily as some being from story, not quite human. Whose hunt was this, exactly?
“Come.” Keeper’s voice was firm, kind. “You will not be sick; just open your eyes and follow me. I’ve got you safe; you will not fall. The shelter is just up there.”
And of course she wasn’t sick, and she didn’t fall, because he was Keeper, and if he said he would protect her, she knew it was true. She also knew, with a very odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, that she was indeed deeply afraid. Of what exactly, she was not sure; it seemed foolish to name it fate, destiny, doom, yet those were the words that kept coming into her head. When they reached the shelter, Small One was there before them, sitting by the fire, a child swathed in a threadbare blanket, rocking to and fro, humming so softly the tune could hardly be heard.
“Rest,” Keeper said. “Lie down; I have asked too much of you. I wanted to show . . . I forgot how it is . . . we have been here a long time . . .”
“Don’t be sorry. It is better that I have seen this.” Creidhe sat down beside the child; she was cold now, and wrapped her own blanket around her shoulders. “Keeper?”
“Mmm?” He was making up the fire, setting water to heat. She wondered where he had got the pot from, the implements of cooking. Gifts from the sea? More trophies of the hunt?
“There’s nobody else here on the island, is there? Just you and—Foxmask.”
He flinched, his mouth tightening. “Don’t use that name.” His tone was cold.
“Very well. But it’s true, isn’t it? There is no other tribe; the whole thing, the whole hunt, every year, it’s just you, one ma
n against all of them.”
“I am Keeper.” The simple statement of truth, delivered without emphasis, was breathtaking in its courage.
“By all the ancestors,” Creidhe breathed, “one man, holding out against so many. It is . . . terrible. It is like a thing of legend, an ancient story too strange to believe. Yet this is true. I saw them, I saw the men you have killed. I have to believe it.”
“You disapprove? I act in accordance with a solemn promise. I must protect my brother.”
“Yes, but . . .” It was hard to get her mind around it, though the truth had been creeping up on her for a long time now, since well before he had led her to his secret cave, shown her his implements of war, his wall of dead faces. The man who had done this was the same man who held the child with hands as gentle as a mother’s, the same man who had fashioned garments for her while she lay sleeping, who had listened spellbound to her story. That man had killed and killed again, summer after summer. He had robbed the Long Knife people of their sons, brothers, fathers.
She felt a slight pressure against her side; the child was leaning on her, thumb creeping to mouth again, his lids drooping. Ingigerd had given up sucking her thumb at two and a half, having come to the realization that there were many more interesting ways to fill the day.
“I need to ask you something,” Creidhe said, “and you probably won’t like it.”
“Go on.” Keeper’s eyes were wary.
“He is your kin, I understand that: Sula’s child. I know how cruel they were to her, and I understand how angry that must have made you. You must have been very young when you stole him away: twelve, thirteen?”
He bowed his head. “Young, yes. Not yet a man.”
“What you did was the act of a man, and I honor your courage; few would have attempted as much. But I look at him now and I do not see a little boy like those of my home islands, bonny, active, merry. To me he seems—deeply sad. He’s so thin, and so easily frightened. Here on this island he leads a lonely life, for all he has you to keep him company. Please don’t be offended, I can see what you have sacrificed for him. Indeed, I see your whole existence bent to his preservation. But this child is no ordinary child. He is not solely of your own lineage, Asgrim’s lineage, but also of theirs. Whatever we may think of their barbaric treatment of your sister, this is the child of the Unspoken. This is Foxmask. Have you ever asked yourself, would it be better for him if you had left him where he was?”
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