Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  A small, bedraggled figure stood there, legs and arms stick-thin; hair a tangled mess of dark strands dripping across his skinny shoulders. As she stared, transfixed, he shook himself as a dog does, and droplets flew all around him in a silvery spray. He came on, walking alone and steadily in his squelching wet shoes and his sodden, feathery garments, his delicate, triangular face pale and calm, his eyes like beacons, shining, confident and true. And still he sang, a chant sweet and wondrous and terrible in its power. As he came nearer, making a straight path between the assembled folk to the place where the elder lay by the stone in a posture of complete abasement, Small One’s song changed, warming to a joy that filled the heart and brought tears to the eyes, and a smile transformed his features, a smile of such happiness it clutched at Creidhe’s vitals. The child took two, three steps toward the ritual stone, and bent to raise the tall man gently to his knees, as if it were Small One who was the elder. Then the man, weeping, reached out, and Small One set his thin arms around the elder’s neck and was enfolded in an embrace of such tenderness one might have thought this was his own father. The long years of exile were over. Foxmask had come home.

  Creidhe’s heart was beating like a drum, her skin was clammy with sweat. The women had released her, prostrating themselves full length like the others. Now the folk of the Unspoken rose from the ground and moved in to cluster around the child and the man who held him in his arms. For a little, the intruders were quite forgotten. Creidhe elbowed her way to Breccan’s side where he still sat supporting the white-haired man. There was a little space by them; Thorvald stood in a pose of readiness, sword in hand, and Skapti paced, brandishing the thrusting spear to ward off any who might venture too close. But none watched them now; every eye was on Foxmask, every ear tuned to the voice that still sang on, filling the air with the music of lives made fresh and paths once more true.

  Creidhe bent close; it was the first clear sight she had had of the injured man. He was so ghost-white one might have thought him dead, save for the one dark, penetrating eye blazing stark with endurance. His tight mouth was framed by grooves of pain. He held himself quite silent. And where his left eye had been, there was a hideous, open wound, a gaping socket that welled with fresh blood and oozing gobbets of matter. Breccan’s hands were shaking as he sought to stem the flow. To bind the wound would be futile without fresh linen or water or healing herbs.

  Her father had spoken to her of Somerled’s severe discipline, his astonishing self-control. This, however, went beyond anything she could have imagined. Niall could not quite regulate his breathing; still, he had not cried out, not once. Creidhe met that single eye, bright with pain, and said, “He’d be very proud of you. Will be, when I tell him. Not just for today, but for everything. You’ve kept your promise.”

  She saw Niall’s lips twitch in an attempt to acknowledge her words; he could not nod, would not speak, lest the effort cause him to scream aloud, or shed tears, or faint, and thus break what she suspected were terrible, self-imposed rules. Then his gaze went back to Thorvald, standing with weapon in hand, ready to defend to the death his father, his comrades, the oftignored companion of his childhood. There was such love in that look, Creidhe felt it even in her own numb and aching heart.

  “We must get him to the boat and away to safety,” Breccan said. “I need bandages and salves, and herbs for the pain. Do you think they will let us go now?”

  But Creidhe did not answer him, for at that moment the mob of folk surrounding the elder and the child parted, and the song died away in a scatter of bright notes, and there was once again a deep, profound silence. She saw the elder set the child on the ground near the place where the implements of ritual were laid out in readiness. The stocky man with arms like tree limbs had taken up his ropes once more. Small One stood very still, eyes tranquil, hands relaxed by his sides. He was a child. How could he understand?

  The elder turned toward Thorvald, facing the point of his sword unflinching.

  “You must leave this shore,” the tall man said gravely, gesturing with a hand to encompass Thorvald, and Creidhe, and the two priests, as well as the looming figure of Skapti behind them. “Take this man with you and tend to his wound. He is very strong: worthy of the honor we accorded him. A priest indeed, full of power in body and spirit. We would have welcomed him, revered him. You must do no less, for this is a man forged by a life of darkness into a true weapon of light. You must be guided by him, for he is wise. As for ourselves, this is our day of healing and of joy, for our true son is returned, our dear one of the spirit, our own Foxmask. We receive him into our hearts and are made whole again. It lacks but the deep ritual, and for that, outsiders may not be present.” His eyes moved briefly to the skewers, the scoop, the club laid ready.

  “Thank you.” Thorvald’s voice was that of a leader. He sheathed his sword and gestured to Skapti, who lowered the spear perhaps a finger’s breadth; the big warrior’s expression was still ferocious with challenge. “We will leave straightaway. My father’s injury is terrible; he needs care urgently.” There was a note of censure in the words.

  The elder gazed at him unperturbed. “He is strong,” he said. “Now go.”

  A glance across the circle, and Sam was released. They were free to leave. Skapti passed the spear to Sam and bent to take up Brother Niall in his arms. Thorvald began to lead the way toward the track.

  “Creidhe?” Sam said gently. “It’s over now. Time to go home.” And he put a hand on her shoulder, as if to guide her.

  “No!” Creidhe exclaimed, shaking him off with some violence. “No! It can’t be finished like this, I promised Keeper—” She darted across the sward in Sula’s little boots and snatched the child up in her arms. There was a gasp of shock from the assembled folk; Thorvald was suddenly still, and Skapti halted, bearing the wounded priest. The elder’s eyes were fixed on the child; it was clear that from now on, the choices the tribe made would be Foxmask’s. The little face was clear and calm. The deep green eyes, changeable as the sea, looked into Creidhe’s, and Small One put up a hand to touch her cheek.

  “I know the manner of your ritual.” Creidhe spoke shakily, but pitched her voice so all could hear. “I understand the reasons for it. In order to tell his truths, to sing his songs, Foxmask must relinquish the sight of the world. Thus are opened the eyes of the spirit. To guide you on the right paths, the seer must cease to tread the flawed ways of man, and travel by visions and stars, by whispers and memories. But you must not damage this child. I could argue that he is small, frail and innocent. I could warn you that in seeking to prepare your seer for this role among you, you may simply end up killing him. But I know you will not heed such worldly truths, not from me. So I will let the seer himself speak for me. You heard his song today, as he stepped from the strong hands of the sea and came among you once more, full of love and wisdom, ready to give himself to your tribe as guide and wise one for the rest of his life. He loves you: that is clearly read in his eyes. He is already full of understanding, rich in knowledge of the patterns of the ancestors. Foxmask is only six years old, and yet his songs fill our hearts with healing hope. I heard him on the Isle of Clouds, where I dwelt by his side before I came here. His voice sang the moon across the sky; it opened pathways I had never dreamed were possible. You have heard him today. Who among you could doubt the joyous note of homecoming in his song? Who could question the wisdom in it, an understanding as far beyond our own as the stars are beyond the little lamps we light to keep away the darkness? I say to you, this child is already wise; at six years old, he is the true elder among you. His spirit shines bright; he is filled with the light of the ancestors.”

  She felt the slight weight of the child in her arms, the tickle of his tangle of dark hair against her cheek; his thin arms were about her neck. Let them listen to her, she prayed; let them understand this truth, or her promise to Keeper would be entirely broken. “There is no need to blind the child,” she went on, forcing her voice steady. “Already in him the
eye of the spirit is fully open. There is no need to cripple him. Did he not come back to you, through the sea, all the way from the Isle of Clouds? Foxmask is home; he has come home by his own choice. He will not leave you again, but will serve you long and faithfully. I beg you, think on this, and do not harm the one who loves you best of all.”

  There was silence for a little, and then whispering and muttering among the folk. The man with the ropes had not moved. Perhaps he was aware of Sam’s eyes fixed on him with a dangerous glint in them. The fisherman stood close at hand; there was less than a spear’s thrust in it. The elder was frowning and rubbing his chin.

  “Creidhe!” hissed Thorvald. “We must go, my father is hurt, I must get him to help.”

  She turned a little, regarding him without expression, her arms wrapped firmly around the small form of the child. “Then go,” she said flatly.

  “Don’t be stupid—” Thorvald began, and fell silent as the tall man spoke. He was not looking at Creidhe, or at Small One, or at Thorvald, so clearly the leader of this band of interlopers. Instead, he met the one-eyed gaze of the man who lay bleeding in Skapti’s strong arms.

  “What do you say?” he asked, and there was a deep respect in his voice. “This is a girl, we cannot take her words as guidance. But the seer trusts her, he clings to her as to a friend of the heart. Our lore demands that Foxmask undergo the ritual. Yet there seems a truth in what she tells. What must we do?”

  And Niall, summoning speech from the depths of his shocked and wounded body, answered him in a thready whisper. “Whose voice will you trust but the child’s? Whose path will you follow but his? He speaks the word of God. Creidhe’s telling the truth; she knows no other way. If her voice is not enough for you, ask the seer.”

  The elder inclined his head gravely. All eyes turned to the child in Creidhe’s arms. Creidhe felt his little hand against her cheek again, his fingers cold, his touch gentle. He was saying good-bye.

  “I hope this is right, Small One,” she whispered. “As long as you are safe and happy . . . he would be content with that,I think . . .” For a moment she felt the child’s fierce hug, and she held him in return; he was only six, for all his wisdom, and the way ahead of him was all of giving and sacrifice. The burden he would bear was not a light one. Then he pulled back, and she saw his odd little smile and the tranquil, soft gaze of his sea-green eyes. She set him on the ground; her hands touched his thin arms one last time, then let go.

  He sang a new song. Its gentle sweeps of melody wove about them as they stood quiet. Its delicate grace notes wreathed the ancient stone as, at a gesture from the elder, the men of the Unspoken gathered up the instruments of the ritual, placed them in a skin bag, and bore them away. Its lilting phrases followed the small party of intruders as they made their way toward the shoreward track, and the men and women of the Unspoken fell back to let them pass. The song rose to fill the air with its brightness, with its sweet, strong message of love, loyalty, and acceptance, vibrating in the timbers of the Sea Dove as the men pushed her off the shore and out into the bay, sounding in her sails like a wind of truth as they set a course for Council Fjord.

  Skapti and Thorvald sailed the boat; Sam was busy rummaging in his well-kept supplies, finding cloth for bandages, fresh water, and the means to make a splint, for it was apparent the loss of an eye was not the only injury Niall had sustained. His right leg was useless, the bones of the calf shattered by one well-aimed blow of that short, thick club. Sam found a strong cordial set away in a small flask of metal, stoppered with a bone plug wound with leather, and this time Niall drank without protest, swallowing the draft the fisherman offered him in two labored gulps. His breath came harder now; Creidhe wished he would allow himself to cry out, for his silence was costing him dearly. When the drink had done its work, and the lid grew heavy over the priest’s single eye, they splinted the leg, Sam and Breccan between them, with Creidhe’s deft fingers to knot the linen strips around the lengths of pine they used, wood set aside from the mending of the Sea Dove. A broken man was not so easily mended. Perhaps the limb would knit straight; with luck, he would walk again, though never as he had done. Niall remained conscious. Creidhe heard the whistle of his breathing and felt the trembling that coursed through his body. Such pain . . . Even her father, surely, would scream under such agony. And yet, looking up, she saw a peace on the priest’s white features, an acceptance in the shadowed depths of his one dark eye that spoke of a joy transcending earthly pain. Whatever he had found today, it seemed a shield good and abiding, and of more than worldly strength.

  When it was done, Sam turned his attention again to the boat, and Breccan settled by the injured man’s side, with Creidhe opposite.

  “Rest now,” the Ulsterman said quietly. “This journey is nearly over.”

  Niall made a little sound, signifying thanks, or agreement.

  Breccan’s eyes were thoughtful, his amiable face serious. “The word of God,” he mused. “You said, he speaks the word of God. How can that be? These folk are pagan, unbelievers. Their rites are savage and cruel. The maiming of children, the gouging of eyes . . . it is surely the devil’s word we heard here, and not the truth our heavenly Father gives us. And yet . . . and yet, the child himself . . . The message, so powerful, so good . . . Did he twist my perceptions, to make me see dark as light? I do not understand it . . .”

  “Brother . . .” Niall’s whispering voice had lost its clarity; the strong draft made him slur his words, but still they heard him. “Much to learn . . . you and I . . . lifetime . . .”

  Breccan glanced at Thorvald, now manning the steering oar, his features focused, intent, as the Sea Dove plowed her way back to the world of men. “You’ll have other things to do with your life now, my friend,” he said softly. “A time of change for you, I think. Your son has a great task ahead of him in this place. He’ll need you.” But there was a question in his tone.

  “You think?” said Somerled, smiling.

  It was night, but summer saw the sun hide just below the rim of the world, leaving a strange, cold light on rounded hill, on quiet lake, on the stone walls of hut and barn and sturdy longhouse. Near the western shore of Hrossey, the light filtered through the cracks in door and shutters, adding its coolness to the flickering glow of Margaret’s small oil lamp.

  She stood in the weaving room, the bowl of seal oil with its floating wick set by her on a stone shelf, and stared in the dim light at the piece stretched half finished on the loom. It was plain enough, no dyes, just the natural hues of the wool, white and cream and the rich, dark shade from her special flock of black-coated ewes. The design had simple stripes at the ends and an even, strong weave; Margaret was skillful, and such a piece as this would be highly valued. But she would never weave as Creidhe had done, with true magic in her fingers, with dedication in her heart as she devised the fine, bright dyes, the intricate border strips, the bold, lovely designs. It took more than skill to create as Creidhe did; it took love.

  Margaret picked up the little lamp and walked barefoot into the long room, where all was neat and orderly, the table cleared, the fire banked up, the pots and crocks scoured and stored. In the tiny room that opened off this chamber her serving women slept, weary from the hard day’s work in house and fields. The little maid she had brought with her on that long-ago voyage from Rogaland was a matron now, wed to a man of the islands and a mother of fine sons, with a farm of her own for them to work on.

  Margaret shivered. The memories of that time hung close on nights like this, chilling her deep inside, banishing sleep. So many chances there had been, so many opportunities, and most of them wasted. All that she had carried out of that dark season was her son, and now it seemed he, too, was lost. It was high summer; the barley grew lush, the sheep were fat, even the wind had lost its sharp bite. But Thorvald had not come home; Creidhe’s place before the loom remained empty. There was no joy in the house. In the brightest season of the year, her home was a place of shadows. Her bare feet whispere
d on the stone floor, moving to the spot where heavy shutters covered the single, narrow window of the long room. Her fingers slid the bolt aside; she pushed the shutters open with a creak and looked out.

  No stars were visible; the brightness of the long summer twilight masked them from view. The landscape lay like a world of dreams, ordinary things made strange by that quirk of half-darkness, half-light. The compact forms of sheep were silvery hummocks merging with the grass; the roof weights moved in the slight wind as with their own life. A cloak, slung over a line to dry, spread wings like a creature poised to take flight to the invisible moon. The air came to her nostrils pure, cool and clear.

  Margaret sighed. This was not good enough. How could she go on like this? She was like a stream dammed in its course which fills and fills, building and building, and yet what held her seemed so strong it would never give, not if the weight of all the cares in the world pressed in on it. It was not right. On such a night, with the world laid out before her in its grand, mysterious wonder, how could she stand here like a shriveled husk of a woman, shut so tight around herself that all she could feel was regret? Oh, to be seventeen again and given the chance to try once more, to make her life anew. Margaret drew the shutters closed. How foolish, to wish such a thing. There were no second chances. If there were, who was to say she would not make all her errors twice over? There was only this life, now, and what years the gods might see fit to grant her. She pictured it: ten years, twenty if she were lucky. Middle age, old age, served out in obedience to her own tenets of restraint, control, order, discipline . . . served out alone, if Thorvald were lost, alone with neither father nor mother, sister nor brother, husband nor children around her . . . What did she have? Her skills, certainly, though they were not so much, when she had seen her pupil’s work flowering bright and wondrous on the loom and knew she did not have it in her to match that. Still, she had taught Creidhe the elements, had tutored other girls who now plied their craft ably all over the islands. There was a certain satisfaction in that. Her household, her farm . . . both were well run, prosperous, orderly; the credit for that was principally another’s, she felt. Her mind darted away, somehow reluctant, tonight, to dwell on Ash, for suddenly those thoughts had a danger in them. She had friends, old and true ones. But Nessa was heavy with child now, and her small family had seemed to close in on itself at this time of risk and worry. Without Creidhe, Margaret felt herself outside that tight circle of love and protection, and limited herself to offers of help with their stock, or gifts of wool or cheeses. She participated in the councils, sometimes, as widow of a former chieftain of the island and as a landholder in her own right, but such pursuits meant less each time. Perhaps, at six-and-thirty, she was starting to grow old.