Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  It wasn’t going to be easy to sleep. She shifted restlessly, turning from one side to the other.

  “Keeper?”

  “Yes?”

  “Didn’t you have a question to ask me?”

  “Yes. But I cannot ask. It is—I cannot—I do not seem to have the words for it. I know I will offend you. I cannot speak it . . .”

  She heard him move as she had, rolling from back to front, rustling his bedding; she saw without needing to look how he lay open-eyed and wakeful, staring up at the sky. It was not so hard to guess the nature of the question.

  “Your tale was a sad one,” she said softly, “too sad for a bedtime story, though it is a tale of great courage. You saved him; you kept your promise. But I think we need another story tonight, and I will tell it, if you agree.”

  “Please.”

  Creidhe could hardly hear him. He was too far away; further than he should be. Still, she would not move.

  “I spoke of Aunt Margaret, Thorvald’s mother,” she began.

  “I do not wish to hear a story of Thorvald. I am tired of him.”

  Creidhe found that she was smiling. “It is not so much a tale of him, though he is in it. You should not interrupt me. This is a story you will like in the end. Aunt Margaret taught me to spin, to sew and to weave. I love weaving; I’m supposed to be quite good at it. My blankets and wall hangings get given away as wedding gifts or as offerings to visiting officials such as the chieftains of the Caitt or the Jarls of Rogaland. It makes me proud that my work is valued, but sad, too, because giving it away is like saying good-bye to a part of myself.”

  “But,” said Keeper, “then you share your gift for happiness with others; the beauty you make travels widely, and gladdens many hearts. That is good. I have interrupted the story again; I ask your forgiveness.”

  “Well,” Creidhe went on, “just before I left home to come here, I finished making a blanket. It was a little different from the others; I chose the pattern and the colors for myself, and as I worked on it I . . .” she was blushing in the darkness, glad he could not see her, “I did not think of it on some nobleman’s wall or decorating a fine lady’s chamber. I always imagined it on my own bed: the bed I would share with my husband on our wedding night.”

  Silence.

  “The blanket was a fine, deep blue; I made the dye myself. There were bands of red in it, a pattern of narrow stripes, and a border I fashioned on the strip loom, with trees and creatures. Every part of it was done with love; if you could tell the tale of what I dreamed as I made that blanket, it would be full of sunshine and warmth, of sweet embraces, of joyful homecomings, of laughing children and the smell of new-baked bread. Of kisses and gentle touching, of sighs that stop the breath, of . . . a whole world of happiness, I wished into that swathe of bright wool, Keeper. When it was finished, I rolled it up and stored it away at Aunt Margaret’s house, and went home. Then I packed my bag and followed Thorvald to the Lost Isles.”

  Not a sound. His inclination to interrupt had deserted him now.

  “I was a different girl then,” Creidhe said carefully. The next part of this was going to be very hard to put into words. “I thought I loved him. I thought that was what love was, caring so much about someone that it didn’t matter if he hurt me, if he ignored me, if he snapped at me. I thought it didn’t matter if he placed no value on the things I cared about. My dreams told me of a time when that would change; when he would see me for what I really was, and we would lie under that blue blanket together, man and wife, as I had always imagined it would be. He has been my friend and companion since we were tiny children. When I stepped onto that boat, I still believed he would change: that we were destined to be together. Thorvald can be—he can be a fine man, loving and kind, when he remembers.”

  “I do not like this story, Creidhe.”

  “You want me to stop?”

  There was a pause. “No,” he said. “I will hear the rest.”

  “It was not Thorvald who changed, but me. Coming here changed me. Our boat nearly sank on the way over. There was a storm, and Sam was hurt. Thorvald was angry with me. Then we reached the Lost Isles, and Asgrim took the boys away. After that I learned about loneliness, and fear, and how it feels to be unable to help, even when you’ve always believed that you could deal with anything. I’ve learned how you can’t count on your friends; I’ve learned how strangers can become friends. When I came to the Isle of Clouds I learned quite new things. Here I found courage, loyalty and endurance, where I had expected only wildness. I found imagination, kindness and generosity. I saw a beauty I had never known existed in this world.” Her hand went out to rest on the sleeping form of Small One, rolled in his threadbare blanket. “I saw that love can survive even in the harshest of circumstances. That a child can keep faith though his resources are tested beyond what most men could endure, that he can remain true all the long years until he himself becomes a man. All this I have learned.”

  Keeper made no sound.

  “And . . . and I discovered I had been deluding myself as I sat at the loom dreaming my fair dreams of the future. You do not make a man, or a woman, into someone you can love; you do not adjust the other to fit your vision of the perfect mate, the one you would hold to you above all others. He is himself; he will not change at your will. He makes his own path. Over a long time I have come to recognize that this is so. Such a pairing might lead in time to a life that was satisfactory: a partnership of friends, in which familiarity and trust played a role. There are many such. It is not so with my mother and father, the wise woman and the golden-haired warrior. They looked and knew; what is between them is eternal, deep, a bond that cannot be denied. It can still be seen in their eyes, in their every touch.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “I have learned that I can accept no less than that.”

  There was a long silence.

  “This is the end of your bedtime story?” Keeper’s voice sounded quite odd, as if his thoughts were in some way making it difficult for him to speak.

  “Not quite,” Creidhe said. This tale would be told far better by touch: by the soft brushing of fingers, of lips, by the whisper of breath and the slow movement of the body. But she could not do that, not yet. “There is only one more part to it. Every night I have dreamed, here on the Isle of Clouds: so many dreams, some dark and ominous, some so sweet that when dawn came I yearned not to wake. Often I dream the same dream that was in my mind last winter as I wove that blue blanket. And I have to tell you, the man who shares its warmth with me now, while I sleep, is not Thorvald. Since you first touched me, I have known it could no longer be so.”

  She heard a sudden, abrupt movement, then utter silence.

  “I do not imagine we can keep this up for long,” she said, “your blanket on that side and mine on this, I mean. But, Keeper . . . dear one . . . I think that we must wait a little longer. The hunt is very close. I’m afraid for you, and for Small One, and for Thorvald and Sam as well. I will do as I promised; I will guard the child. What you have to do appals and terrifies me. I cannot understand how you can survive it, year after year. That is what gives me pause now, though I long to lie by you, to touch and . . .” She was not managing this very well at all; her feelings were threatening to get the better of her common sense. She took a deep breath. “What is between a man and a woman should be done in joy,” she went on. “Until we have come through this dark time, we should wait, I think. Otherwise we would come together in desperation, we would seek one another in order to shut out fear, to banish shadows awhile. I don’t want it to be like that. I want it to be a thing of gladness, of sunshine, of hope, the way I imagined it when I wove the blue blanket.” Gods, her heart was going like an axe cutting wood, and her face felt hot as fire. She could never, ever have spoken thus to Thorvald; she was not even sure she had done the right thing now. Just possibly, this was not what had been on Keeper’s mind at all. He had a terrible trial facing him; perhaps his thoughts were all of ambushes, of sorties and sudden deaths
. She could hardly bear to think of it.

  “I . . . I like this answer very well,” Keeper said. It sounded as if he was smiling. “It seems I did not need to ask the question. I wonder if I have dreamed this, Creidhe.”

  “No,” she said shakily. “You’re awake. We both are, and likely to stay that way awhile, I should think.”

  “It is such a short distance, from this side of the fire to that,” he said. “And yet, a world away. I had never thought it could make such a difference where I set my blanket down.”

  “It won’t be so long,” Creidhe whispered. “A few days, that’s all. Goodnight, Keeper.”

  “Goodnight, dear one.” His voice was soft in the half-dark.

  Sleep did not claim her until it was close to dawn. By then Keeper had gone, perhaps to set his blanket down elsewhere, perhaps to perform a patrol of his traps and boltholes, his weaponry and lookouts. She did not wake until he came back well after sunup, with Small One at his heels.

  He smiled at her, a smile full of sweetness and sorrow, and then he said, “We must go now. This morning. I will take you to the place of hiding. They come tomorrow. I see it on the water.”

  Creidhe’s heart shrank as she scrambled out of her blankets, eyes still bleary with sleep. “Tomorrow? So soon? I thought—”

  “Yes,” Keeper said gravely. “I, too, thought it would be longer. We must gather all that is here: blankets, clothing, the implements of cooking, all that can show signs of our presence. Later I will erase all traces of the fire and cover our tracks.” He fell silent, watching her. “I am sorry,” he said eventually. “Sorry that you must endure this because of me. You must not be frightened.”

  This time Creidhe could find no words of reassurance. Tomorrow was real; tomorrow looked her straight in the eye. Tomorrow was Thorvald facing Keeper with a sword in his hand and a mission in his heart. If Thorvald won, she could go home to her family. If Thorvald won, Small One would be handed to the Unspoken. And Keeper would die; she knew he would fight to the death before he let them take the child. In the back of her mind, she could hear his voice, stern, certain. If your friend comes for Small One, I will kill him.

  As she folded blankets and cloaks, Creidhe struggled to apply a measure of calm to her thoughts. She considered what her parents would do if faced with such a situation. Nessa, still truly a priestess for all her life among family and folk, would seek aid in meditation, in divination, in trance and prayer. Nessa would act according to the wisdom of the ancestors. Creidhe was no wise woman. Sometimes what appeared in the Journey did seem to her to reflect an ancient wisdom that flowed into the woolen images quite independently of herself, but that was no help now. She knew what the Journey demanded next. It was starkly clear in her mind, and it turned her chill with foreboding. As for Eyvind, he would never have allowed matters to reach such an extreme. If he had to deal with this, he would gather all the parties together in a council, and ensure they brought their concerns into the open. He would insist they stayed there until a satisfactory solution was reached. That was his way, a path of justice and fairness. It was all very well in the Light Isles, a place of thriving, peaceful settlements, of well-tended boats and fields full of healthy stock. Who would have the strength to impose such ordered thinking on the autocratic Asgrim and his terrified people, or on the eldritch tribesmen of the Unspoken? How could the same council table ever hold the Ruler, and his son, and the folk who had stolen and defiled young Sula? If only Brother Niall were here, or Breccan. Creidhe longed for their calm, practical voices and their wise advice.

  “Creidhe?” Keeper had finished gathering up his pots and pans, his fire irons and his ragged blanket. The fish they had cooked last night was ready in a covered crock.

  “Is it time to go?”

  “Take this,” Keeper said. He held out the knife he had been working on, a sharp, useful-looking weapon whose bone hilt now bore an intricate binding of cord—twists and knots and turns that seemed to Creidhe a delicate, formal semblance of the tumbling waves of the western ocean and the long-limbed creatures that lived there.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking it in her hands. “I hope I will not need to use it.” She glanced at Small One, who was making an attempt to fold his own blanket the way she had done hers, neat and square. Tongue between his teeth, he knelt and patted the threadbare wool flat with his small, long-fingered hands. “I intend that he and I will remain out of sight and quite silent until they are gone. I’m not used to hurting people. I’m not sure I—”

  “Shh,” Keeper said. “Just take it. It will ease my mind to know that you have the means to defend yourself, and him. All will be well; the hiding place is hard to find, and the Long Knife people become quickly frightened on the Isle of Clouds.”

  The hiding place was indeed hard to find: a shadowy cavern accessed from a ledge still narrower and more perilous than the one that led to Keeper’s armory, and situated high on the southern flank of the island’s steep hill. He had already put water there in skin bottles, and had laid a motley selection of old cloaks on the stone floor, sheepskin and felted wool and soft leather, the spoils of other hunts in other, earlier summers.

  “It is small,” said Keeper, “and you cannot make fire; you can burn no lamps. The two of you must sleep close to stay warm. I am sorry, truly. I regret this greatly.”

  Small One had carried his own blanket to the cave. Now he was laying it out by the wall, tugging it straight. It was clear he understood exactly what was happening and what was required of him.

  Creidhe looked around the cramped space. The narrow entry left the cave in semidarkness even now, in full morning. She eyed the water skins, the pot of congealing fish, the hard ground where, she knew, the bedding they had brought would do little to alleviate aching backs and strained necks. She studied the child, who had seated himself cross-legged on his blanket and was staring at her with his ocean-deep eyes, pools of fluid darkness in the odd, triangular face. She thought of Sula.

  “It’s a very good place, Keeper,” she said firmly. “It’s snug and secure. I’m sure we will be safe here. Have you ever thought of just—of just hiding along with us, until they go away? Surely they would not find you here.”

  “When all are dead, there can be no more hunt. I will fight until they cease to come to my island. I have promised. And now I must go, Creidhe. There is much to be done today.”

  “Oh—you’re going now, already? Can’t I help you, just until the sun goes down? It is so soon—”

  “Best that you stay here.” His voice was firm but gentle; his eyes gave her another message, in which love and pain, desire and confusion were all present. “You can talk to him today, until nightfall. After that, you must be silent until it is over.”

  “You will not be with us tonight?” Despite her best efforts, Creidhe’s voice came out small and wobbly.

  “No, dear one. I must leave you now, and I will not return until they are gone from this shore. From now, from the moment I walk away from here, I must think only of the hunt; my mind must hold nothing but that. I regret—”

  “Stop it!” Creidhe cut his words short. “Stop apologizing, as if this were your fault! Of course you regret. We all do, all three of us are sorry that we cannot be together, that we cannot walk about in the sunshine, and be close to other folk, and live our lives without fear. These islands are a crazy place, to generate such misery and terror. One day that will change. We’ll make it change. Now you’d better say good-bye to Small One and go before I start to cry. I would rather not do that; I don’t want to upset him.”

  Nonetheless, tears pricked her eyes as she watched Keeper kneel down, a long, lean figure in his feathered garments, and gather the scrawny child into his arms. His hands were careful, stroking the disheveled dark hair.

  “I must go now, little brother,” Keeper said softly. “You will be brave, I know, as you always are, and quiet and good. And this time you will not be alone. We have Creidhe now; we have light in our dark place. Creidhe w
ill stay with you until I return. With her, you will be safe. Good-bye, Small One.”

  The child said not a word, made not a sound as Keeper set him back on the blanket and stood to face Creidhe.

  “I must go now.”

  “Yes.” And she should let him go, she should let him leave this place with nothing in his head but strategies for survival. Yet, as he stood pale and solemn before her with his eyes full of shadows, she found she could not simply stand aside and let him pass.

  “You must say farewell to me too,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” said Keeper, not moving. His own voice was hardly stronger. “But I have no words for it.”

  “No need for words.” Creidhe took a step toward him and, twining her arms around his neck, she touched her mouth to his. Just a little kiss, she had told herself, just a brief good-bye kiss so she had something to hold onto while he was gone. But his lips parted against hers, his breathing quickened, his arms came around her in fierce possession and Creidhe realized that little kisses were no longer a possibility. She clung to him, her body pressing tightly against his, her mouth hungry, her hands clutching: so much for waiting until the time of desperation was past. Keeper’s fingers had wound themselves into the long, bright strands of her hair. There was a kind of fire burning in her body now, the same she had felt last night when she had spoken words of love to him, but deeper, harsher, wilder in this moment of parting. Somewhere within her was the knowledge that, if her dark visions represented truth, she would never hold him thus again.

  At length they both drew breath, though breath came hard and unsteadily, and they stepped apart, still clasping each other’s hands, reluctant to sever that final bond. Creidhe looked into Keeper’s eyes, seeing that alongside the daunting strength, the astonishing courage, the long-sustained loyalty, there was fear: the fear of his own mortality. He gazed back at her as if to commit her features to the deepest corner of his memory so that, even in the midst of battle, he would carry her with him.