Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “Welcome home, Sam,” Brona said. The smile, now, seemed to be for him.

  “You’re looking well, Brona.”

  “You look tired. And you’ll be hungry. I made a pie.”

  Like a ray of sunshine, Sam thought. Like a breath of sea air. He followed her into the house, summoning his courage. If he must tell the tale alone, tell it he would, and truthfully. He had played a part, after all: a bigger and bloodier one than he would have dreamed possible when he sailed away from Stensakir on Thorvald’s dark mission. He would tell them, and then it would be over, and he could get on with things.

  But it was Creidhe who told the tale, her voice clear and precise, with a cool detachment that held her family silent through the whole strange account. They sat over a meal; nobody ate much. Creidhe’s story was hard to believe, but they knew she did not lie, and besides, neither Sam nor Knut contradicted her. There was a point at which Sam attempted to interrupt, as if a part of the tale had been left untold; nobody missed the look Creidhe gave him, a look that silenced the fisherman instantly.

  They had to believe it. The three had reached distant islands, where the young men had been bound to train as warriors, since the Sea Dove was damaged and wood must be earned to mend her. In time, Thorvald had somehow become a war leader, and had led his forces to victory against another tribe. And he had found his father. That gave him two reasons for staying when the others sailed for home. Somerled was a priest, a Christian. He had been in danger and they had rescued him. He had a different name now. After it was over, Sam and Creidhe had bid Thorvald farewell and sailed for home.

  “Brother Niall—Somerled—is a good man; he has a place in the islands, and his faith, and now he has his son as well.” Creidhe’s tone had altered a little; momentarily, her listeners caught an echo of her old warmth. “And Thorvald has changed. In some ways. He has more of a part to play there than he ever did in Hrossey.” She was speaking directly to Margaret now, a Margaret who, despite her outward calm, could be seen to be clenching her hands tightly and hanging on every word.

  “The men seem to respect him greatly,” Creidhe went on. “He will do well, I should think.”

  “Creidhe,” Eyvind put in carefully, “where were you while Sam and Thorvald carried out the preparations for war? What were you doing?”

  Creidhe looked at her father, eyes wide and blank. “Nothing much,” she said.

  Sam opened his mouth; Creidhe glanced at him; he shut it again.

  “You’re tired, daughter,” said Nessa, who wore a little frown on her brow. “We ask too much of you too soon, I think. Why not go and rest now? There will be time for more talk later. She looked at Sam and Knut. “Please accept our hospitality for the night. It’s a long ride back after such a journey.”

  “Thank you,” Sam said, “but we’d best be off home, I reckon. I’ve been too long away; I want to sort out the boat, and find Knut lodgings, and get about the business of fishing again as quick as I can. But I’ll be back this way soon. If that’s all right.” He could not help glancing in Brona’s direction as he said it; she was sitting with her small sister on her lap, and flashed a smile at him, her eyes alight.

  “You’d be welcome,” Nessa said, though Eyvind made no comment. “We have you to thank for our daughter’s safe arrival home, though the voyage itself was a wild and foolish endeavor.”

  “Which, undoubtedly, my son persuaded you to undertake.” Margaret’s dry tone did not conceal the fact that she was on the verge of tears. “I, too, thank you, Sam; and you, Knut, for coming with them. We’re happy to see you home. I must hope Thorvald will pay us a visit some day. Distance makes that less than likely, I suppose.”

  Creidhe spoke into the sudden silence. “I have a letter for you, Aunt Margaret. I was given it to deliver.”

  Margaret looked at her, dark eyes watchful, as if to defend herself from further hurts.

  “It’s not from Thorvald,” Creidhe added, and took a little scroll from the pouch at her belt. It was neatly tied with a scrap of scarlet cord.

  Margaret’s hand was shaking as she took it. “Excuse me,” she said, and rose to her feet, making for the outer door. The men got up respectfully. By the doorway, Margaret paused, turning back toward them. Her face was pale; her eyes glittered with tears. “Ash?” she said, and reached out a hand, and he crossed the room in three strides, setting his arm around her shoulders in full view of everyone. Their news was learned thus, without any need for words. They went out, and the door closed behind them.

  “I’m all right, Mother,” Creidhe protested as Nessa tucked the covers over her in the dimness of the little sleeping chamber she shared with Brona. “Really. I think you’re the one who should be resting, with that child growing apace. Are you sure it isn’t twins? You should have told me before.”

  “I hardly knew it myself at that stage.” Nessa’s expression was very serious as she sat by the bed, scrutinizing her daughter’s sunken features, her dull, lifeless eyes. “I’m so glad you are home, Creidhe.” She had longed to speak to Creidhe of the child, of her fears about the delivery, and about the price the Seal Tribe might seek to extract from her. Creidhe would understand these things in a way Eyvind could not. Creidhe would offer kindness, reassurance and brisk, practical advice. But she could not burden Creidhe with her own concerns. It seemed to her that this daughter, formerly so strong and capable, had become in little more than a single season as delicate and fragile as a new-laid egg. They must tread carefully; they must take time. “Sleep now,” Nessa said, smoothing Creidhe’s hair back from her temple. “You’re home.”

  “Mother?” It was a whisper.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t let Father ply Sam with questions. I’ve told you what happened. There will be more in Brother Niall’s letter. But that’s all. Sam needs to get back to the way things were. He’d never have gone at all but for Thorvald.”

  “And you?”

  Creidhe gazed up at her. “Me?” she asked blankly.

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Creidhe said, and closed her eyes.

  For a while it seemed to Nessa that Creidhe was grieving over the defection of Thorvald, to whom she had been deeply loyal since their infancy; Thorvald, whom she had followed to the ends of the earth. Eyvind had done his best to get the truth out of Sam, with limited success. He discovered Creidhe had been held captive, briefly; that there was a possibility she had been hurt, misused, during that time. On hearing this, Eyvind had come close to venting his fury on Sam himself, for not protecting her, for not preventing such an outrage, but Sam’s natural dignity and obvious contrition cooled the older man’s anger. It was clear the fisherman had done his best; plain, also, that whatever had happened in that remote place had not just damaged Creidhe but had changed all of them profoundly. Thorvald a leader of men: that was a little hard to swallow, for although the lad was clever and able, he was also moody, volatile, subject to bouts of black self-loathing. Would one choose to follow such a man? Sam was different too: harder, older. And Somerled. That was most startling of all. Somerled a hermit. Somerled a Christian who, Margaret revealed after reading her letter, had made a choice to follow ways of solitude and scholarship rather than run the risk of being seduced by power again. Somerled had indeed kept his promise; he had become the man Eyvind had once entreated him to be. It was strange and wondrous. It was deeply soothing to the heart, as if at last the threads of a great tapestry were tied and finished and the work revealed to be a thing of beauty, once gone darkly awry, now set straight and fair. He would be truly happy, Eyvind thought, despite his anxiety for Nessa, if it were not for Creidhe. The change in her was shocking, frightening; it caused him deep unquiet.

  They all agreed she must be given time, and so, as harvest month came and went and the days grew shorter and the winds colder, they moved around her with care, avoiding awkward questions, not asking too much of her, sparing her the need to attend such public gatherings as weddings and fest
ival days. And they saw, to their dismay, that time alone was doing little to heal whatever hurt it was Creidhe bore. She walked through a semblance of her old routine, helping in the house, going to Margaret’s to spin and weave. She made no new designs, working only on those Margaret set her. She kept herself tidy, and treated them all with a distant courtesy. This seemed a mockery of the old Creidhe, as if a changeling pretended to be the girl they had known and loved, without understanding what it was that had made her the vibrant, glowing center of any room she entered. That quality was not beauty or charm, not kindness or goodness or generosity, but all of these with something extra thrown in for good measure, something elusive whose name nobody knew, but whose loss everybody grieved.

  In time, they began to come to terms with it. While Creidhe was away, Brona had assumed many of her sister’s household responsibilities, and she kept them now, planning in advance so they would be ready for visitors, supervising Ingigerd, preparing special meals. It was to Brona that small Ingi turned now, next after her mother; this youngest sister was shy of the new Creidhe, who had no will for the telling of tales, the ready hugs of comfort, the laborious brushing and braiding of tangled hair. As for Nessa, she was looking inward more and more as her time came closer. She hid her distress so as not to worry Eyvind more than she need do. And Eyvind ceased to cast around for likely suitors when he traveled about the islands consulting the landholders and attending councils, for it was plain that was no longer appropriate and perhaps never would be. There was Brona, of course. It was plain what Brona wanted; Sam had become a frequent visitor, and although he spoke with Creidhe alone sometimes, and seemed to be able to coax a little animation to her features, he spent most of his time gazing at Brona, and she at him, with an expression that was quite unmistakable. And Eyvind, who had never considered that Nessa’s daughters, born of the ancient royal line of the Folk, might marry farmers or fishermen, looked at Creidhe, wan and dispirited, and looked at Brona, sparkling with health and happiness, and knew he would have to say yes when Sam finally plucked up the courage to approach him on the matter. Not yet, though; let them wait a little and prove this was strong and real. Next summer would be quite soon enough.

  When it lacked but a single turning of the moon until Nessa’s babe was due, her eldest daughter, Eanna the priestess, arrived at the longhouse with her little cat in a basket and settled to stay awhile. Her presence brought calm; the young wise woman was deeply respected in the islands as guardian of the ancient ways of the Folk. This faith had endured alongside the other, newer beliefs, the rituals of Odin, Thor and Freyr that Eyvind’s people had brought from their homeland, and the Christian teachings spread by Brother Tadhg and his fellows. Eyvind’s family followed the old ways, despite his childhood in Rogaland and his young life as a warrior servant of Thor. The islands had changed him; Nessa had changed him.

  Eanna had consulted the ancestors on the subject of Creidhe. She held certain images in her mind as she watched her sister; considered certain wisdoms she had kept to herself thus far. Because of her position, Eanna was lodged in a small, separate dwelling house, but she took her meals with the family. The cat had deserted her for now and attached himself to Ingi, who carried him around tirelessly, showing him every corner of house and yard, stable and walled field. Eanna observed. Her family was unhappy, deeply so, for all their surface calm. There were secrets. True, some things are destined to be secret, and should remain so. But not this, whatever it was. This was tearing her strong family apart. Nessa was pale and anxious, Eyvind too quiet, the child tiptoed around Creidhe as if she were a ghost. Brona was the only one who seemed happy at all, and even she was looking worn out.

  Eanna took her chance in the afternoon, when Nessa had gone to rest, on her husband’s orders, and the women were busy out of doors. Brona had taken Ingi off to gather the eggs; a meaningful look from her eldest sister had told her this expedition should not be rushed. Eanna sat with Creidhe on a bench before the cheerful glow of the turf fire.

  “I must—” Creidhe began, getting up.

  “No.” Eanna’s voice was quiet but firm; it was a tone that could not be disobeyed. “Stay here. I want to talk to you.”

  Creidhe sat down again, mute. Her fair hair was pulled back severely from her face and plaited painfully tight. There was no color in her cheeks at all. Her hands twisted together in her lap.

  “Brona tells me you’ve stopped making the Journey,” Eanna said.

  Creidhe blinked; the question had startled her.

  “Why, Creidhe?” Eanna asked.

  Creidhe began to speak, faltered, tried again. “I can’t,” she said dully.

  “Can’t? Why not?”

  “Because . . . because I can’t see what’s next.” There was a hopeless sound to Creidhe’s voice, a terrible resignation. “There’s only a blank, as if it went wrong and just stopped. I don’t know what to do.”

  This, Eanna suspected, was the most anyone had got out of her sister since her return home. The family’s kindness did not seem to have helped much. Perhaps the time for kindness was over.

  “This is extremely selfish, Creidhe.”

  Creidhe did not respond.

  “What about Mother? The last thing she needs right now is you mooning about the place wrapped up in your own sorrows, when she has this child to worry about. She’s so concerned for you she’s losing sleep, sleep she badly needs. You were never selfish before.”

  “She doesn’t need to worry. She doesn’t need to concern herself with me.” Creidhe’s tone had not changed.

  “No? Then try to act a bit more like a real live woman and less like a cloth doll, can’t you? If you’d stirred yourself to think about Mother a single moment, you’d know she’s terrified about the birth, terrified the child will die, full of fear that the Seal Tribe will rob her of another infant in payment for the favor they once did her. And Father’s afraid he’ll lose her or the baby or both. Ingi seems to be pretending you’re not really here: have you seen the way she avoids you? Is that good for a child? Whatever it was that happened, you must talk about it, get it out. You’re hurting everyone. It has to stop.”

  Creidhe stared at her hands, offering nothing.

  “Answer me, Creidhe.” That tone again: not the voice of a sister but that of a priestess, ancient and commanding.

  “They should be content,” Creidhe said, not looking up. “Sam and I are back safely, Thorvald is happy, Somerled has become a good man . . . What more do they want?”

  “They want the old Creidhe back. They want to put things right for you.”

  “The old Creidhe doesn’t exist anymore. She’s dead. She died when . . . when . . .”

  Something, Eanna thought. Something at last, though her sister had sunk her teeth in her lip to stop it from coming out. “When Thorvald decided to stay, and sent you home?” she ventured. “That’s what Mother seems to think.”

  Creidhe stared at her, blue eyes round with surprise. “Thorvald?” she echoed.

  “You seem astonished,” said Eanna dryly. “Yet you spent your whole childhood following him about like a devoted slave. You chose to go with him on his mad voyage. Surely you expected something out of it.” It was cruel, maybe. But if cruelty would force Creidhe awake, would light some spark in her eye, if only one of anger, then she would use it.

  “I wouldn’t wed Thorvald if he were the last man in the world,” Creidhe said in that small, cold voice. “I’m glad that he found his father, and his future, for Aunt Margaret’s sake. But that’s all. I hope I never see him again as long as I live.”

  “Creidhe,” Eanna said quietly, “did Thorvald hurt you? Was it he who—?”

  “Who what?” It was plain that Creidhe was not going to make this easier for her sister.

  “Something Sam said—implied—to Father, that you had been harmed in some way when you were captive—that perhaps some man had forced you—”

  “Sam doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t understand anything. And nor does T
horvald. All he could think about was winning his war and impressing his father. Even at the end he didn’t understand what he had done when he . . . when he . . .”

  Eanna moved closer; taking her sister’s hands in hers. They were as cold as a corpse’s. “Tell me, Creidhe. What did he do? What is too terrible to be set down in the Journey?”

  Creidhe shook her head, closing her eyes. “I can’t. I can’t bring myself to tell you. Somehow, if I don’t say, if I don’t share it, I can keep him—them—as they were, alive inside me, deep down. I can see and hear them . . . If I talk about it I’ll lose that last little scrap of life, and if I do that I don’t think I can go on at all, not even pretending . . .”

  It had been there, the truth at last. I can keep him alive . . . Not Thorvald, not Sam, but another. And Eanna thought, just possibly, that she knew who it was.

  “I have looked in the fire for you,” she said slowly. “Made the patterns of augury, sought the council of Bone Mother. I have truths to tell you, sister, if you will hear them.”

  “There was no need,” Creidhe said flatly. “It’s too late to change it now.”

  “It’s never too late,” Eanna said. “All is change. And I did not do it for you, believe me, but for Mother and for Margaret, both so anxious for the children they love. The ancestors have much to say concerning yourself and your journey. It seems to me the truth is a great deal more complex than the tale you told the family.”

  “I told no lies.”

  “Perhaps not; and Sam is loyal to a fault. They tell me he refuses to fill in the blanks. I’ve seen a child in the story, a powerful child, and there is a young warrior. I did not speak to others of these two, because of what they are. Mother has reason to be anxious about the Seal Tribe. As I said, she fears for her child.”